


Its Chords Asunder

by B_Radley



Series: Rise and Fight Again [28]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Content, Canon-Typical Violence, Families of Choice, Force Weirdness, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Love, Multi, Recovered Memories, That is how the Force Works, The Force Unleashed—sort of, letting go of the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-02-25 22:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 97,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: Ahsoka Tano must return to Felucia to investigate sightings of a Jedi thought dead in the Cataclysm of Order 66—a Jedi who had once mentored both her and her hunt-brother, Bryne Covenant. She races against time, as Covenant has fallen into the remnants of his Force-sense with visions of his late Master, Shaak Ti.As she moves deeper into the mystery, she must fight her grief and memories of her own powerful Master, Anakin Skywalker. At the heart of the mystery, she will be tested as she fights the darkness brought on by a long lost artifact.





	1. You think I cannot understand. Ah, but I do...

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-imagining of _The Force Unleashed_ , with certain characters and situations from the game. It’s an attempt to mesh it with canon, as well as with my own ‘verse. The story also takes advantage of ‘the many deaths of Ti’, in canon and Legends. I hope that you enjoy this. I’ve worked on it for quite a while and had it in concept form for over a year. 
> 
> Please excuse any liberties I’ve taken with the characters and story of the video game and thanks for reading! Feel free to comment.

The Force shifts; its eddies and flows expand and contract, pushing and pulling. Lately there has been more pushing away of one side, for the advantage of the other. The one called the Bogan—the dark side in some parlances, has gained more ground in the past two decades or so over its companion—its sometime adversary, the Ashla.

Into this continual push and pull comes a burst of energy—one that has only been seen twice before. Once at the dawn of those practitioners of the Ashla, as they tried to cope with the rising tide of darkness and its adepts—the Sith.

The second on a fetid jungle planet of bright colors and industrious natives, of malleable wildlife—wildlife that could serve the energy burst’s own purposes.

Consciousness builds within the sphere of energy. The sphere remembers its own true purpose for its existence. An existence programmed into untold millenia; even before the dawn of the Jedi and the Sith. An existence that had been shaped further, in an attempt by one side to gain its ascendancy over the other; by arcane practitioners of the Ashla’s art and science.

The consciousness gains thought from the deepest fiber of its energy. The random thoughts take shape forming words—words in millions of languages, all at once. The words form sentences; sentences that accompany embryonic images. One word in particular leaps out from the consciousness.

A name. A name given it by both victims and shapers of the consciousness.

 _The Asundrance_. That which tears apart. That which will end the eternal struggle for balance. One that whoever possesses the key will gain ascendancy for one side over the other.

Or destroy everything in the universe.

The Asundrance searches its memories of that last encounter with those known as the Jedi—the acolytes of the Ashla. Images form in the consciousness. Two older Jedi, both of the gender known as female. Each of different species, each with different aspects of their manipulation of the Force-that-is.

One of them touched by an obsession. An obsession for knowledge, including knowledge of the Asundrance and other artifacts and rituals. An obsession that causes her to touch that side of the Force forbidden to the Jedi. An obsession that camouflages a deep secret from her Order.

The other Jedi, a serene, but passionate huntress, her measured thoughts hiding her own pain, a pain that has tempered her, but made her stronger in the light. A connection made stronger by the younger member of their party, a bright light, untried, and callow in the Force.

The Asundrance stops as it realizes that the first Jedi’s essence is locked with the consciousness. It realizes that the key may have been activated, with the joining of that Force-sense.

The consciousness doesn’t focus on its newfound companion.

Rather it focuses on the memory snatched from that younger Jedi—the not-quite-a-student.

The Asundrance begins to grow; to take shape of a form from that memory.

Vision expands from the center of the consciousness, as the Asundrance sees that it is on that jungle world. It looks down into a pool of water, seeing the features forming from that memory. Violet eyes in crimson skin, with high horns—no, montrals—take shape.

The Asundrance-form smiles. It is time for the completion of the Sundering.

It is time for chaos—chaos that will bring order.

* * *

Taliesin Croft gingerly picks his way down the narrow ridgeline. He allows his hands and fingers to feel the way to his objective in the lightening sky. Other senses, including some that most of the hunters on this world don’t have, are locked on a tiny bit of fur-and-something-else on the ground below. Something that he had observed several of the other apex predators of Shili mark in their own stalking.

He hopes that the essence of the _akul_ beast that he had rubbed all over himself would fool the beasts into thinking they had an extra member of the stalking pack. He wrinkles his nose as it locks on the part of the spoor that is in his actual range of scent.

He reaches the end of the ridge; surveys the next part of his climb. A sharp drop of perhaps ten meters, ending over the trail in the dry wash at the base of the drop. With the characteristic lack of fear of most fourteen-year olds, he rotates his body down to where his feet touch a small outcropping of rock that he had spotted.

A slight slipping of his sandals on the lip causes him to rethink this lack of fear. Of course, being an Initiate in the great Jedi Order would give him another way down, but his master had cautioned his dependence on those powers in the Hunt. _You must use other senses, my lad_ , she had said, the hint of firm humor in her slightly accented voice. _Your targets do, even though they have every living thing’s connection to the Force_.

He stops for a moment, seeing her violet eyes—the harbinger of a master huntress in her world’s legends—narrow at him with a little bit more firmness, as she warns him against doing exactly what he is doing now. Stalking a pack of _akul_ to hopefully snag one of the smaller animals that hung around a herd of _akar_ , the large boar-like animals that were sought for their meat.

All because he was tired of the taste of _themiar_ , and other rodents that she had been feeding him. The taste and smell of an _akar_ roast, or even a smaller _thul_ , in his mind overwhelms any other good sense. So much so that he doesn’t sense or feel the slight rumbling down the cliff, as he is halfway down the face.

Taliesin feels a cry torn from his lips as a he is hit by a large, solid mass on his right side. His senses narrow to a pin-prick, but are overwhelmed by the impact on the ground, followed by the intense pain in his lower left arm. That odd sense of the absurd that seems to be in every Corellian’s makeup from almost conception, kicks in. _Guess I won’t be writing for a while, so I’ll miss that exam on the Code_. His eyes are drawn to the limb, seeing the bit of deformity. He draws himself back, pulling his hunting knife from its place on his leg.

The pain, coupled with his growing fear, only gives him a brief look at what he faces. A mass of red fur and very large teeth. His lessons from his hunt-mother tell him that he faces a large mature female. The smaller gray-furred mass behind him tells him that the predator is that most dangerous of opponents.

A mother protecting her cub.

He sits up straighter, holding the blade out. The fourteen-year-old’s sense of priorities kicks in. _I hope I don’t pee myself_ , his mind says.

He starts to close his eyes; waiting for the blow. His eyes snap open as he hears snarling from the beast. His eyes widen.

Shaak Ti, his hunt mother and future master stands facing the female _akul_. He can see that her own sharp incisors are bared. She is clad in a simple hunting tunic, that leaves most of her skin bare; the hunting markings that are generally covered by her Jedi robes glow in the morning light.

Taliesin shakes his head to clear it of other fourteen-year-old-male thoughts, attempting to concentrate on the peril at hand. His thoughts move to the raw power that seems to radiate from Ti—the power of a master huntress, as well as a newly-raised Jedi Master.

The _akul_ swings a paw, almost lazily. With a grin, she easily evades it. She gives a quick cry; an intake of breath, really, as the cub’s claw connects with her opposite side. Taliesin watches as the mother cuffs the cub—an action that appears gentle, but knocks him across the floor of the wash.

A part of his mind wonders if he is about to receive a similar cuff.

The mother watches Ti warily. Ti smiles and lowers her knife. Tal shakes his head as his hunt-mother dips her head in a bow.

The _akul_ seems to mimic the movement, then starts to move away, shoving her cub in front of her. At the last moment, the mother reaches over and licks the claw-wound on Ti’s side.

Ti watches them leave, then turns to Tal. Her eyes flash for a moment, then a slight smile quirks up. She walks over and kneels by him. She touches the broken arm gently, her expression filled with concern that warms Tal, even though he knows a look of disappointment will follow. A look that would cut him as deeply as if she had raged at him—or had cuffed him. He looks down and away.

Ti smiles again, a smile tempered with something like _fear_.

“I suppose if I had told you to go and do this, you would’ve probably not done it, little one?” she asks.

Tal has no answer as she starts to tend to his injury.

Bryne Covenant wakes with a cry, the vision of the long ago memory locked in his mind’s eye, as well as the remnants of pain in his left arm. Next to him, another huntress comes awake as well, her hands immediately going to his shoulders and pulling him tightly to her.

He stares into Ahsoka Tano’s powerful eyes, then closes his own, burrowing his face into the cool skin of her shoulder.

* * *

The one in the middle slumbers. Except for a brief awakening, when another in the light was threatened—one who might not be the light’s savior; but might prove the catalyst for the restoration of balance in the Force, he had remained dormant—merely listening to the eddies of the Force.

Until now.

The strange sensations of a new awakening bring the Bendu to the world again. The Bendu’s eyes narrow as they open on the bleak worldscape of the place that the sentients call Atollon in their lore—mostly forgotten lore. The Bendu takes a deep breath of the cool morning air as he rises to the full height, as if one of the giant tree-habitats that he sometimes resembles.

They narrow further as he opens his senses to the galaxy at large. The sensation centered on the jungle world in a distant system has the smell and taste of familiarity. Not one that he is personally and directly familiar with; but one that he has sensed in the near past.

One that he sensed in particular as the Jedi died on the night that the balanced shifted to the chasm of darkness. He reaches out further, trying to identify both the consciousness and the individual Force-sense connected to it. One who he had thought was lost to the light; now a part of the cosmic Force.

The Bendu sends his memories back to the threat against the young former Jedi—the threat to her life that he had monitored, but had been powerless to interfere with. Only her powerful will had kept her from slipping into the Force’s grasp after she had taken on a powerful warship and its weapons with only two borrowed lightsabers.

He smiles to himself. That and the tiny hope that one other had survived, even when she had realized she would never be able to contact her Master again—even not knowing that Anakin Skywalker had fallen to the Sith’s grasping, reptilian fingers. A tiny spark that he had sensed; one that was almost insignificant in the grand scheme of light vs. dark; but would play his own small part in the farce or tragedy to come.

An ex-Jedi who would protect and nurture the other—the catalyst; the one touched by the Daughter’s essence and light from an action that had been impulsive that long ago day on Mortis. An impulsiveness that might serve as another push to return the balance to the galaxy between Ashla and Bogan.

The Bendu allows the threads of the sensation to play through his consciousness. The presence is connected to that insignificant one—the Protector. The picture begins to form in his mind, as seen through the eyes of the insignificant one. A powerful woman; a teacher, both in the ways of the Force and the ways of her world, which the Protector had adopted whole-heartedly.

The vision grows darker as the Bendu realizes what the essence of that teacher is connected to. Something that could tear both Ashla and Bogan apart. A tearing that would either send one side in full ascendancy from the other, or even worse, separate the two sides where they would no longer be dependent on one another. Where there could be no balance, with the wall constructed between them.

A lack of balance that could tear at the very fabric of the universe.

The Bendu sighs and sits back on his haunches. He begins to watch, initiating a long wait to see the foggy outcome more clearly.

A smile plays on his face; a mischievous expression.

He sends his thoughts to that former Jedi—a young woman who is blissfully ignorant of her connection to larger events; save for intermittent visits from the Daughter’s harbinger.

He realizes the risk that he takes. He, after all, is the one in the middle. The one who is not supposed to take sides.

The Bendu figures in his calculus that someone else has already taken a side.

* * *

The Sith opens his eyes, startled from his meditation as he has never been before. He looks around the chamber, the ocherous eyes in the reptilian, scarred face, narrowing that anyone or anything would dare disturb him.

He is alone.

The being once known as Sheev Palpatine, reaches out with the Force into the next chamber. The four Imperial guards, their faces hidden under their crimson robes and the blank masks, stand alert and ready; their minds quiet. His principal lackey, Mas Amedda, sits outside, waiting patiently for his master’s bidding.

Perhaps not as patiently as he could.

Sidious reaches out further, expanding his query beyond the Palace—a building now steeped in the Dark Side, with only tiny remnants of the light, from its time as the Jedi Temple. Remnants easily suppressed; as easily as the Jedi had been, a little over five years ago.

He doesn’t have to search far. The irregular tickle in the Force reaches him as soon as his sense leaves the planet. His mind’s eye takes in the fetid jungle planet. His eyes widen at the twists and turns of the sensation.

The sensation of tearing crowds his mind. He turns and activates a comm—a direct line to his apprentice.

Vader’s armored figure immediately kneels. His obedient posture hides the spark of hatred that Palpatine always senses from his apprentice. A threefold hatred. Hatred for his master. Hatred for his situation.

Mostly, hatred for himself.

Palpatine smiles at Vader’s greeting. “What is thy bidding, my master?”

The hatred is now, as always, masked; simmering and roiling just below the surface.

“There is a great disturbance in the Force, my apprentice. It seems to be possibly centered on Felucia.”

“I will go at once, my master.”

Palpatine shakes his head. “No. The disturbance seems unstable. One of your power may upset whatever it is.”

Vader stares at him. “What is the disturbance?”

Palpatine nearly laughs when Vader drops the semblance of subservience.

“I’m unsure. It feels like something I’ve found in my studies, but nothing specific. I know that it either presents us with a great opportunity to cement our hold on the galaxy and the Force, or it could sever our connection with the Dark Side.” He returns Vader’s stare; looking into the obsidian windows of the mask. “I’m sure that you have someone among your Inquisitors or better yet, their trainees, that can go.”

Vader nods after a moment. “I have someone in mind.”

Palpatine nods with satisfaction. _So predictable in his dance_ , he thinks. _Perhaps it is time for me to take the lead again_.

“Make sure that you have the Grand Inquisitor dispatch the agent. I would hate to think that you might be training your own apprentice, Lord Vader. I’ve dealt with that before, with your predecessor.”

Vader is silent, then bows his head, giving only the most perfunctory of obeisance.

Palpatine’s mind flows back to that conversation long ago with Dooku. When he ordered Dooku to murder his own assassin; one who had taken on the title of apprentice.

The death had taken some time, but it had eventually occurred, at the hands of Tyranus, even as Asajj Ventress had returned to the light.

Palpatine smiles. _Death comes to all who flee the Dark Side._

**Five years and three months after the Fall of the Republic**

Obi-Wan lowers the macrobinoculars from his eyes as his Force-sense jars him from the present. He takes a deep breath, then places the optics on the dusty ground of his hide. He runs his hands over his weather-beaten face; the product of five years of exposure to the twin suns of this world.

He pulls his left hand from his face while allowing his other hand to stroke his sun-kissed ginger beard. He reaches by feel to his belt, drawing the water bottle from the opposite side. He pauses in his deliberations, fumbling open the bottle and then drawing gratefully on the surprisingly cool water.

The soothing drink helps center him, as he tries to make sense of the jarring sensation in the gift of his birthright. A gift, as well as a curse, these days. He closes his eyes, opening his shielding carefully. More than his own life depends upon his ability to remain concealed.

His blue eyes open and narrow as he analyzes the brief sensation. An inkling of fading in his Force-sense moves through his body, as well as his mind. For the tiniest of an instant, he is blind to the Force; an instant before his sense returns. He feels as if the mystical energy field had been ripped from him in that brief microsecond, before returning to him, as it had since his earliest thoughts.

He closes his eyes again, seeking the source. Oddly, his mind sees a young woman standing on top of a Republic tank deflecting Separatist bolts as her forces are nearly overrun in her folly and disobedience. He sees anguish on her face as she sees the other gunships lift off with the remainder of her troops, just before the tank is overrun by enemy forces she had not seen.

He sees that same young woman, a bit older and mature, helping fight off Hondo’s pirates on the same world.

Felucia.

He takes a deep breath, steels himself. He knows he is possibly— _no, probably_ —the last of his kind in the galaxy. He might be the only one who could investigate the strange power growing there on Felucia.

Oddly, as he starts to stand, he is struck by another wave of _something_. A familiar sensation of another of that young woman’s species. A fellow master, one that he had shared so much with as they both sought to find their way, on a bright sunny world of loving, joyous people. He sees her on that jungle world.

As if in the present.

He stands, determined to see the threat for himself. He stops at movement in the distance. A burly male, his face as weathered and as bearded as Obi-Wan’s own, turns to another direction, his face twisted in fear.

Obi-Wan senses several other beings from that direction. He settles again and lifts his binocs. He sees Owen Lars turn to the landspeeder, the long rifle in his hands. He sees Lars gesture emphatically to the speeder. A small figure, no more than five or six years old, runs to the speeder, although with a thunderous look of defiance on his face.

Kenobi watches as the landspeeder powers away from the stand of vaporators. His heart is seized with emotion at the familiar look on the towheaded boy’s face.

He settles back down to watch. _No, my place is here_ , he thinks.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, late a Jedi Master of the Old Republic, can only hope someone else can heed the call—the siren song of the disturbance on Felucia.

Oddly, he allows himself to think of that young woman from the Wars. He has not permitted himself to mourn and grieve Ahsoka; has pushed her eager face away from his thoughts.

He buries his face in his hands.

* * *

The Mother lies her head back as her cub walks into the cave. A cave located near what the hunters call Mehele’s Drift. A cave that seems to be out of time; where most of her kind, one of two apex predators on this world, avoid.

A place where she had been welcomed by another predator—a huntress who had gained her trust seasons ago, by merely reaching out with her mind. A mind filled with grief and pain; the loss of her mind-cubs; her _padawans_ in the parlance of her wizard-kind.

She looks up into the eyes of her cub, his eyes the color of the deep lakes, mixed with the color of her fur. His own fur thick and gray. He mournfully licks her muzzle. She responds with a cuff to his from her weakened front paw. A cuff with no claws, only lessons. He touches his muzzle to hers.

She knows that this cub, her pride and joy, with cubs of his own, is a close avatar to the mind-cub that her huntress had finally raised to adulthood. A strong hunter; not of the huntress’s kind, but with her own pride and joy in the Hunt.

The Mother knows that her huntress’s spirit had left this plane several seasons ago; had joined her ancestors on the Eternal Hunt, when her kind—the wizards—had been slaughtered. The same time that the hunter-cub had returned with his fur more closely resembling that of her cub—the color of his tempered knife-blade. The cub had returned with many scars both inside and out. She knows that he had managed to touch the mind of her cub; he and another, younger huntress. One who had borne her own scars and pain when they had touched. One who had joined with the cub during an entire moon’s stay on the Plains. In a cave very much like this one, as well as under the stars. Their playful laughter and skillful sparring, along with the cries of those joinings, had eased many of their pains and burdens, if not all of them, in addition to interrupting her sleep and her cub’s hunts.

The Mother lies back. She had thought that this was her time. That she could lay down her own burdens. The burdens of the memories of cubs and even useless mates that she had outlasted. She had thought that she could join her huntress in the Eternal Hunt. She had felt her body weakening over the last days-into-nights.

That had been before she had felt the essence of her huntress in her mind. A touch she had felt she would never feel again; when she had felt the huntress die on a distant watery world, her cub holding her against the night.

She looks up at her own cub—her own heart. She rests, but feels her strength rallying, if only to see what this spirit-return might mean. As she closes her eyes to rest; she sees the huntress. She realize that she is seeing the huntress through two different sets of eyes.

The eyes of her cub, as well as the eyes of the female of yet another species. A woman with a slightly different hue of skin from the huntress, with brown and blue fur. A young woman who had looked at the huntress with such love as they bound each other’s hands with pure cloth, in a ritual not of this world.

Only scant weeks before the mother had felt the huntress join the Eternal Hunt.

The Mother opens her mind to both visions.


	2. I have been wrung with anger and compassion for you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I saw Anakin defending the Temple against the 501st. I saw him killing those troops that he loved so much.” Ahsoka’s voice breaks. “I saw him slaughtered when the entire remaining battalion opened fire on him at once.”_

The pure white cloth binds the two slightly different shades of red together, as the long fingered hand clasps hers tightly. She marvels at the similarity, then looks into eyes only slightly lighter than her own royal purple. 

Gray-blue stripes in the long lekku cement their similarities; her own blue highlights in her dark brown hair shine in the morning’s light on the ruggedly beautiful world. 

They both speak the words of benediction together; one in a slight drawl of her father’s world, the other in a lightly accented voice from certain regions of this world. She looks out into the wild beauty of the plains, the beauty of the world and the beauty of the world’s daughter tightening her heart—that part of her that reigns supreme in the triumvirate of her people’s soul. 

She smiles as she feels the affects on another part of the soul, as she takes in the older woman’s bare body, close in front of her, both hands bound to hers now. She lifts her left hand to the woman’s cheek, the cooler skin burning hers.

A very large feline beast walks into view, as if from nowhere. The beast is followed by a slightly smaller cub. Both of the animals stop as they draw next to the pair. She feels her heart clinch again, this time in fear. 

Her new heart-bond smiles as the older _akul_ sweeps her tongue over Dani’s face, then Ti’s.

Daaineran Faygan starts awake in the night. She sits up; tries to slow her breathing. She feels the moisture on her cheeks. She brings her hands to her forehead, feels her fingers move into fists against the skin. She completes the move by extending her fingers and running them through the thick waves of her hair. She exhales as the dream begins to fade; the memory of a version of her bonding ceremony with Shaak Ti shrinking as if to a pinpoint in her brain. She manages to grab and hold onto the emotions that accompany the image. The powerful joy from both of them; tempered by the pain of Ti’s loss; her murder at the hands of the New Order. Simply because of another of her birthrights. A slightly spicy smell intrudes into her senses; the beautiful essence she had always associated with Ti. She closes her eyes as the pain wells.

As she does, she is transported to a jungle world—a slightly fetid explosion of brilliant hues. She is sure that she has never been to this planet before. She gasps as she sees Ti, dressed in homespun clothing that allows her to take full advantage of her body’s natural camouflage, even on an unfamiliar world. She sees the azure lightsaber ignite in one hand; the hunting blade in her left hand flashing.

Dani’s eyes snap open, bringing her back to the room in the fading darkness. A sound from the bed next to her allows a smile to be painted on her tear-streaked face. The little girl with honey-gold hair snuffles, then moves closer to Dani’s side, her thumb near her mouth, but no longer in.

Dani’s smile increases as she thinks of the girl’s clear voice. _I’m a big girl now. I don’t do that, anymore_. The smile dampens only a little bit as she thinks of the lost time with her adopted daughter, Jamelyn Blackthorn. She sighs as the knowledge that the Elector-Presumptive of Corellia is growing up. She rolls her eyes at her dark thoughts. _It’s not like she’s suddenly taking the Signet today._ She giggles quietly as the Hope of Her World wipes her nose on Dani’s flannel shirt.

Dani carefully exits the bed, allowing Jamelyn to grasp the stuffed Corellian hound known as Dorpy closer to her. She pulls the flannel shirt around her, then releases the lapels, allowing her fingers to slide down to her bare legs, past the bonding chain just below her waist. She hears a slight noise from the next room. Dani, reaches down and moves her fingers through the dark gold strands on Jamelyn’s forehead then turns away.

She moves across the bedroom, her bare feet stopping just before the door. She places her head against the wood, then opens the door, moving silently into the next bedroom.

+=+=+=+=+=

The Grand Inquisitor is not pleased. He waits at the hangar deck of the Inquistorius, allowing the heat of the lava planet to move over his face, as he waits on the Novice. He takes a deep breath, then releases it. He’d never had to wait on a trainee before. Usually the few Novices that the Inquisitorius had managed to find in the few years of its existence waited on him. 

Or they paid for their tardiness. Usually in a spar with Lord Vader, in which they were unceremoniously deprived of a limb that might be excess to the Dark Lord’s purpose. 

If they were lucky, the appendage was not their head. 

He sighs; catches himself. A few years in Vader’s service; years as a Jedi Temple Guardian before that, had taught him that shows of impatience were not always the best path to take. 

This particular Novice had been particularly skilled in getting under his skin, if not their master’s. The Thirteenth Novice had sparred often with Lord Vader; had managed to keep all of his limbs intact. _Not even a finger._

Not even that damned smirk in his eyes over the scarlet cloth that hid the rest of his face. 

As far as the Pau’an knew, the Novice had never bested Lord Vader. Vader had just shown a peculiar kind of patience. Either that or the young human had mastered every lesson with few mistakes. 

In his mind’s eye, he sees the pair dueling—a privilege, as his master didn’t usually make these sessions public, unlike other lessons. He sees the reverse grip on the Adept’s single bladed training saber—an oddity for an Inquisitor these days, as all are uniform. An unbidden memory comes to his mind. That of a young Togruta, sparring in the training dojos of the Temple, under his watchful, anonymous eyes. Even at her young age, she had shown such skill and determination. She would’ve been a fine addition to the Inquisitorius. 

He shakes his head, his lips curling into a sneer. _No. She was firmly in the light. As firmly as her master, Skywalker_. He closes his eyes as an even more unbidden memory comes to the forefront. A memory of her just before she stood before the Council and received her padawan assignment. So proud, with only a tiny bit of trepidation in her uncharacteristically humble demeanor.

The Grand Inquisitor curses to himself. His last trip to the past sees Ahsoka Tano standing before the Senate, her hands bound, as she defiantly faced them. Just as they were about to sentence her to face a clone firing squad. Or worse yet, his own saberstaff, as Guardians were, in the distant past, the faceless executioners of Jedi who had murdered. An instant before Skywalker had brought the true culprit, Offee, into the chamber of justice.

The beginning of his doubt in the Order. The beginning of his fall. 

He senses the presence of the initiate behind him. “I’m not accustomed to being kept waiting, Thirteenth Novice.”

To his credit, the human gives no indication of impertinence, for once. He bows as the Grand Inquisitor turns. “My apologies. Lord Vader was giving me a lesson.”

“So I am to assume that you know what your mission is?”

The human’s dark eyes betray no emotion over the mask. “Only that I was to have a mission, Grand Inquisitor.”

The Pau’an studies Thirteen. He is young, what would pass for an exemplar of his species. Tall, solid, with a powerful Force-presence. A powerful presence especially as he is not even twenty. One that he finds hard to read, unlike the other Inquisitors—those who had been Jedi, before. They seeth with their anger and impatience. 

With dark purpose.

This one is closed off, guarded. The Inquisitor knows nothing of his background.

Only that he is the first of their kind not Temple-trained.

He looks down his nose at the Novice. “You’re going to Felucia. To investigate certain legends—certain sightings of a Jedi thought dead. Keep your senses alert; our masters feel that there is something deeper there.” He pauses. “Consider this your graduation exercise. Don’t come back if you fail.”

He turns away from the young human, his part in this farce done. 

The Grand Inquisitor finds it odd that the Novice merely stands there as he leaves.

As if he was the master, rather than the assignee. The Grand Inquisitor is sure that a certain personage on Coruscant might find this demeanor interesting.

+=+=+=+=+=

The flames rage in the night. The Jedi Temple burns, as blue trimmed white wraiths fire indiscriminately into its millennia-old precincts. Young children lie everywhere; their bodies broken. Older children try to fight back with their half-completed training and their newly constructed lightsabers, or worse yet, harmless training electro-sabers. 

The tall Jedi with the scar through his eye turns a corner, his eyes blazing with anger. He ignites his blade. His lips curl, then flatten in a straight line as he looks at the younglings; then at the troopers. His troopers of the 501st—his brothers in many battles. The smile returns. 

It grows as he deflects their bolts; he doesn’t bother with protecting them from the ricocheting bolts. His saber becomes a blur as he manages to kill a platoon, then a company. He continues to fight, shoving them into each other’s bolts or smashing them against the stone walls. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a small group of younglings flee. He faces his front, realizes that several companies of the battalion face him. They stop firing. He stands ready, watches as they bring up crew-served blasters. He closes his eyes.

His blue eyes snap open. He charges the mass. He hears a scream in his mind.

Ahsoka Tano snaps up from her sleep; the vision clear in her mind, but fading with her scream. She immediately looks to see if she has awakened her bed-partner. To her sadness, she sees that he is up and pulling her into his arms.

The warmth of his skin against hers, as it always does, soothes her. Her eyebrow markings knit together as she realizes that his skin is damp; that his breathing is only now beginning to slow. She pulls him against her, allowing his face to move to her shoulder.

He keeps his eyes closed against her. She raises his chin to look into those green pools. He turns his head, avoiding her look. Instead, he takes her cheeks between his hands and brings his lips to hers. She allows his tongue to meet with hers, then shakes her head.

“No, Bait,” she says. “You’re not going to distract me with that.”

She stifles the squeak as the fingers of one hand suddenly shift to move along the soft skin of her inner thigh, before settling on more sensitive flesh. 

“How about that, Runt? Does that work?”

He bites back his own noise as she grasps him and squeezes slightly. “Don’t know,” she says, her own voice rising in pitch slightly. “But I can keep this up all night, sport.”

They stare into each other’s eyes, both seeking the light of pain and grief. Both hoping that the other will give in, so that the victor can care for the vanquished.

Or at least have bragging rights in the other age-old contest. 

Their foreheads move to each other, as their touches slide to other spots; spots that keep their hearts quickening, but calm the heat of their blood. A kiss to her nose, a running of her fingers through the hair on his chest, before moving to his stubbly cheek. As always, she marvels at that stubble; something that most of her other lovers hadn’t possessed. 

Including those other Links of a certain Corellian Chain that share their hearts. She catches him staring into her eyes. She knows that he marvels at the blue. She remembers what Dani Faygan had once said. 

_We may be in each other’s hearts—all of us. But the two of you are in the fabric of each other’s._

A Zeltron would know the heart.

She moves her hand down his back. With a quick breath she draws her palm back and slaps him on the ass. His yelp echoes with the sound in the quiet cabin. 

“Okay, Bait. Time to come clean. What caused you to wake up like that?”

She sees the warm, crooked grin crease his face—one other thing that always trips her heart.

“Don’t know, Runt. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

Ahsoka narrows her eyes. “That’s not how this works,” she says. 

His own expression mirrors hers; giving the appearance of his feet digging into the deck, even though he sits in her arms in the bed. He drops his arms from her, crossing them over his chest. “Ahsoka, we argued about this over and over. We agreed to not keep secrets from each other. I know that I’ve given you a lot of leeway on Anakin. I know it hurts. But someday you’re going to have to tell me.” His shoulders sag. He takes a deep breath and moves his hands to the lekku framing her face. “Do you know how he died?” he asks softly.

She closes her eyes and leans into his left palm. She can feel the various scars on that hand against the sensitive lekku. Scars he had earned only in the last year and a half or so.

When they had fallen back into each others’ lives. She makes a decision. “I don’t know. I can’t tell if it was just a nightmare, or a Force-vision.” She smiles; an approximation of his crooked grin, then looks down again.

He waits patiently, his fingers absently stroking her lekku. She tries to focus on the fading dream, but fails. Her eyes lock on the scarred skin of his right shoulder, above the scar that she had inflicted on him years ago, to save his life. She moves her lips to the scar, letting her tongue trace it. He breathes in, but sees that his eyes remain focused in their intensity on her face.

“I saw Anakin defending the Temple against the 501st. I saw him killing those troops that he loved so much.” Ahsoka’s voice breaks. “I saw him slaughtered when the entire remaining battalion opened fire on him at once.”

He pulls her closer to him. It is her turn to put her face in the skin of his shoulder. She pays no mind to the rough texture of the heavy blaster burns. 

The scars that are a part of him, now. 

“He was so magnificent. I guess my view of him is tinged with a hint of hero-worship. He was as he always was; at his best when defending those who couldn’t defend themselves.” She looks up at him. “I’m sorry, Bait. I know this—” she starts.

His lips silence hers. When they breathe again, his eyes are filled with understanding. “No, _cyar’ika,_ ” he says. “Anakin was your future. You grew so much more under his teaching than you would’ve if you’d been stuck with me. I’m in awe of what you became.” He looks down. “Of what you are,” he finishes in a whisper. 

She touches her lips to his, as if to help him breathe. She gives him a final kiss. “Might not have been able to without some of the things that you taught me.” The patented Smirk grows on her face. “A couple of things.” 

The eyeroll in response does what she knew it would; causes her heart to flip. She pushes him back on the bed, then climbs full on him, her elbows planted beside him. They gaze at each other. 

“Did you feel him die, Ahsoka?”

She is silent, busies herself by nibbling on his chest. He holds his breath, trying to concentrate on controlling blood flow. She finally gives him relief, lifts up and looks down at him. 

“No,” she says. “He was there; in the bond, when I was on Mandalore. Just before the 332nd turned on Rex and me, while I was fighting the gangs. He was suddenly not there. I guess I was too busy trying to defeat Maul.” She feels him brush under her eyes. She shakes her head, willing the tears to stop.

“That’s my full dream. What about yours?” she asks. 

“The same. Order 66. When I watched Ti die,” he replies, matter-of-factly. Her eyes soften as she sees him look away. He had told her the story, the day after they had re-connected.

Ahsoka closes her eyes; makes another decision. She knows there is more to this dream. She can see it in his eyes. She makes the choice to ease their pain, to save the full story for after they live. She places a smile on her face over her concern. She moves her middle. “Someone’s alive down there.”

He looks at her with an unreadable expression. Slowly a smile grows on his features. A smile marked with something else.

_Gratitude._

Ahsoka knows in that moment that both of them will always tell each other everything, but each of them will allow the other to tell in their own time. She wonders with the risks that they take, if the uncertainty of their lives will allow them that time.

She moves up, lifting him in her arms to a sitting position. She climbs on him again, then begins to kiss him, her hands moving down to his middle. As they move against each other, one last thought crosses what is left of her mind in that moment.

She has to think that they will always have time.

Unknown to her, as the light expands in his mind, as he takes in the pure joy of being with her, part of his mind is back on a watery world, starting to fall from the city. 

Bryne Covenant, once known as Taliesin Croft, sees his master lifting up from the deck, her eyes staring at him accusingly, just before he falls.

Living.

Something that she had not done on that day.

+=+=+=+=+=

Thyla Secura, the former navigator of the feared Blood Bone Order, shifts on the pallet, wrapping the thin blanket around herself a bit tighter and thinks about life-choices. 

She lifts her left hand and once again tries to scrub some of the dried blood out of her one good eye. She moves the hand over to her right eye, mourning the loss of her eye patch; something she had lived with for nearly five years. An adornment necessary after helping rescue the pirate crew’s former cook, a Jedi attempting to save his former master. 

Her hand drops to her lap. _Won’t matter much soon, my girl_ , she thinks to herself.

Thyla reflects on the past few weeks. A job offered by one of the natives; one of the few she had ever encountered off of Felucia. A smuggling job, to try to counteract the ruinous takeover of the nysillin medical spice concerns of the local farmers. She had once heard that the farmers had been targets of pirates for protection a few years ago, until a trio of Jedi and a motley crew of bounty hunters had put a stop to it. 

“I guess the definition of pirate has changed a bit,” she whispers to herself. 

Supposedly, this was an easy smuggling job. No shooting, no contact with the Empire. She shakes her head, suddenly glad to feel her lekku move on her head again. Instead, the locals had hired several smugglers for the same timeframe.

Another crew of about a dozen. Her amber eye narrows. A crew of rivals to the Blood Bone Order that had fallen on hard times. A crew now whittled down to six after the Imperials showed up. She curses her skill at finding the biggest gomers, either in her professional life since Lassa had allowed her to strike out on her own, or her personal. 

Oddly, Thyla thinks of the one person who had never wound up turning her life upside down in the personal. She sees the wise, world-weary eyes of Rex, the former GAR trooper who she had helped, with that same ship’s cook with to save another clone. Her eyes close as she feels, then sees his warm bronze skin against her medium purple.

The door to her cell opens. The _d’kuht_ Imperial garrison commander, as slovenly an example of a soldier as she had ever experienced—the direct opposite of Rex and his brothers that she had come across in her travels. He wipes his hands on his already-stained tunic, his bloodshot eyes looking her up and down in her ragged orange prison tunic.

“I’ve finally gotten over the last hurdle, my dear,” he says in his grating voice. “The Sector Moff has upheld our auto-tribunal’s sentence. Since you’ve been found guilty of piracy, I can go ahead and hang you.”

“Oh, joy,” she says dryly. 

“I’ve decided to stretch out the hangings. Not much entertainment on this backwater. I’ll hang one of you each day for a week.”

“Let me guess, you’re starting with me.”

He smiles, an absolutely disgusting expression. He touches her cheek. “No, my dear. I’m saving you for last. Thought that you might change your mind on my offer.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and let me dance at the end of that cable? I’m probably the shittiest dancer, otherwise, of any Twi’lek you’ve seen. My late brother, on the other hand—” she trails off.

“I’m assuming you’ve seen someone executed for piracy before? It’s not an easy death,” the Imperial says. 

“Yeah, I have,” she says quietly. She stares into his eyes. He blanches, then regains his composure. “By the way,” she continues. “I still contend that I’m a smuggler, not a pirate. I gave that life up a few years ago.”

Her defense, as it always had, fails to impress him. He reaches over and touches her cheek. 

She bats his hand away, half-hoping that the mudskull behind him, holding his blaster on her, will take offense at her impertinence and end her quickly, with a blaster bolt to her face.

Instead, he steps out of the cell door, allowing it to open wider. Her heart sinks as she sees one of the other pirates being lowered to the floor, his feet giving a final kick. 

“I think that I’ll let you and the others attend tomorrow. You’ll get to watch the whole thing, then watch us hang the corpse at our gate, as a warning to the savages here.”

With that, he turns and is gone. 

Thyla sits back down on her bunk. The officer had struck a nerve. She had once watched the Order’s former gunner choke his life out at the end of a rope. After she had knocked her Captain unconscious, when she had nearly gotten them all killed to rescue her mentor. At that moment, as she watched him die—an obligation she had felt to him—she had vowed she would never live to be hanged. She looks around the cell, unable to find anything that would help her keep her promise. Her eyes fall on a mirror over the sink; she stands up and works at it for several moments, trying to break the glass. She sees herself slump in the reflection, her skin growing pale as she realizes this will not help.

She returns to her bunk. Memories of her Captain, Lassa Rhayme, move through her thoughts. Her bronze eyes sad, but encouraging when Thyla had told her that she needed to leave. To get away from the ghost of her twin, Thorin. Her anchor. Her mind sees his nearly-always smiling face, looking down at her from his much greater height, his skilled dancer’s body against hers as he holds her.

She sees his eyes, the only things that were identical about them, staring up at her in the bobbing boat on Kamino; his lekku severed by the blaster bolt that had pierced his heart as well.

“I’ll see you, soon, ‘Rin,” she whispers. “Maybe you’ll make a better dancer out of me.”


	3. I have been wrung with anger and compassion for you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’ve lost before, Shy,” Dani says. She looks around, as if expecting someone to be eavesdropping. “I loved a Jedi. She was my heart. We even wound up taking the vows of heart-bonds.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Just before the Republic died._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Just before the Jedi died.”_

Lassa Rhayme stares at the green liquid at the bottom of her glass. Normally, the prospect of a full bottle of Tevraki Emerald—even rarer than the amber version—would make her glow with warmth. 

She is still as empty as before. She looks up at the defiant crewmember, accused of stealing from her shipmates’ take. Lassa moves her eyes to the jury of the woman’s peers; most of whom could barely be bothered to judge the woman under the Articles.

She sighs and dismisses them with a sharp glance. Two extra watches for stealing from the spoils, at least—one that in the past would’ve resulted in the malefactor being kicked off of the crew, at the minimum. 

Her comm console chimes. She reads the print and smiles slightly. A small fighter, one of the new A-Wings, was requesting docking, using a certain code that had been absent for awhile. 

She closes her eyes, thinking of lost and absent friends. At least her quartermaster, one who has been absent—most likely saving the galaxy, would be here for a short time. She smiles as she thinks of the young Togruta warrior; a young woman as dear to her as any in the universe, along with the smartassed Corellian who had once served as her ship’s cook. She punches an acknowledgement; with permission to dock.

Both of them thought lost, at different times, in the darkness that had consumed their shared heritage. 

Her eyes grow sad as she thinks of her own truly lost. Three Zeltrons. A young man, his sister and her heart-bond. All killed by a Separatist, choking their lives out, so that he could see her reaction as she stood with the cord around her neck, balancing on a stool. All in the name of science. The young man had been her first love; all of them as close as a family. 

Another picture flashes in her head—a kindly Naboo, who had allowed her to be elected as Captain in his stead. Another of her dead.

The final face cuts through her heart. A pale, sharp-featured face with ice-blue eyes. A Dathomiri witch, who had found her way back to the light. A woman of her own age, who she had shared comforts and laughter with. A young woman gone before her time.

Lassa thinks of those still alive, but away from her. Thyla Secura, her remaining eye sad as she tries to escape the ghost of her dead twin. Gri, the young Nikto midshipman who had left with the Weequay master-at-arms—a mentor, possibly even the closest thing he had to a mother.

She smiles as she thinks of the one remaining officer. San Adis, once a Republic pilot, then demoted in the transition of the Navy from the Judicials. Mourning his adopted Twi’lek children and his wife, lost in the Clone War. Her gunner and her rock, his heavyset frame one that she leaned on for strength in recent months. 

A man dealing with his own grief by keeping hers at bay. The smile turns into a grin as she thinks that the Thlothian might be the only thing keeping her as Captain. He, as mild-mannered as they came, but one whose frame bespoke of power. Especially when he put his ham-sized hand on that knife at his belt. One that she was not sure had been sharpened in ages.

Lassa feels the grin fade as she realizes three of her crew are still standing in front of her. She grits her teeth, then scrubs her hands over her face. 

“What?” she asks tersely. 

The one that she expected to, does so. Delto Loganer, a Weequay in Adis’s gun crew, smiles unctuously. “That was interesting, Captain. You couldn’t persuade the crew to toss her ass out of an airlock?”

Lassa pours herself another shot, then corks the bottle. “Well, it would help if others would stand with me when some scumbag steals from them.” She takes a sip, then stares at Loganer. She looks at, then dismisses the other two. She doesn’t even know their names, as they seem to be joined at the hip with Loganer. “Someone who would stand with me, instead of whispering in the crew’s ears at every turn.”

Loganer somehow manages to put on an innocent look. _It doesn’t improve them_ , she thinks uncharitably. “Whatever do you mean, Captain?” he asks. His expression hardens. “Sounds like you might just be a bit paranoid. Maybe we need to think about other arrangements.”

There it is. _The threat of the vote-out._

Lassa’s eyes lock on an unfamiliar figure that has moved into the compartment. A young woman of medium height stands in the door, looking at her calmly. She focuses on the interloper.

The young woman stares at her intently with a pair of brown eyes—eyes with a hint of laughter and sparkle. Calmly, but with a tiny hint of trepidation in the body language. Her arms are crossed over her chest. A mass of bronze curls, tied back in a messy ponytail, completes the look. Lassa looks sharply at the rank plaque on the right chest of her plain field jacket. Her mind searches for a snippet of a conversation with Ahsoka. 

Something about sending her someone for some seasoning and training. She slams her drink down on the desk. She turns her eyes back to the three Weequay. She jerks her head towards the door. Loganer grins, then he and his minions slowly turn and mosey back to the hatch. Loganer stops and looks the young woman up and down. To her credit, the young officer drops her arms to her side, at least the left one. The right one hooks on her belt, only a few inches away from the butt of an extremely large blaster on her hip. Lassa looks on with interest, realizing that the shiny wears an RSKF-44 heavy Corellian blaster. A powerful adornment that takes up most of her right leg down to her knee.

She appears to be comfortable with the weight of the giant weapon. For an instant, she thinks that Loganer might test the newcomer. He shakes his head, looks back at Lassa, then exits the room. 

The young woman returns her arms across her chest, focusing on Lassa. She returns Lassa’s appraisal. “I’m Meglann,” she says, starting to come closer, her right hand extending out.

Lassa steels herself, her recent thoughts raw in her mind. She takes a deep breath, then stares at the proffered hand. “I don’t care. I told my Quartermaster that I don’t have the time for babysitting.”

Meglann’s eyes harden. She drops her hand. “Nor the skill, apparently,” she says, her tone dry.

Lassa stands up. “Who the hell do you think you are, little girl? I got underwear older than you. I don’t care how good you think you are, I won’t be insulted on my own ship by a pissant college girl.”

“Looks like it might not be yours much longer, if I understand those so-called ‘Articles’ of yours.”

Lassa involuntarily drops her hand to the holstered blaster in a cross-draw at her waist. She feels the room close in on her as Meglann’s hand moves back to close proximity with the hogleg.

San Adis walks in. His eyes survey the room, a troubled look on his dark features, with his ever-present headdress and head-tendrils quivering. He locks eyes with Lassa, shakes his head once.

She relaxes her hand, sees the young woman—one who looks like she has been raised in at least warmth, if not wealth, relax hers as well. A look at her eyes tells Lassa there may have been recent trials in her life.

_What do I know? I can’t even read my crew anymore._

“Look, little girl. I don’t know what Ahsoka told you, but I don’t really want to take the time to get you your university credit on my ship. Plus,” she says, nodding at the rank insignia, “we do things a bit differently here. There are no Queen’s Regulations here to protect you.”

“What if I don’t need protecting? I can handle myself,” comes the reply. Lassa almost laughs. _She’s not even twenty, I think_. She shifts her attention to Adis, who waits patiently, watching the exchange. “What have you found about Thyla? Has she been caught, as we heard?”

He purses his lips. “I don’t know. I do know she was last seen in the Felucia system. There’s been some increased Imp activity there.”

Lassa takes this in, allowing her mind to play over possibilities. She makes it up quickly. “You go there. Find out what you can.” She smiles as she sees her other problem standing somewhat patiently. “Take Junior here, with you. I’m assuming that shiny new ship might be a trainer?”

Meglann says nothing for a moment. After a moment, she nods. “I think I can squeeze him in somewhere,” she says, eyeing Adis’s ample girth. Adis rolls his eyes.

Lassa smiles wolfishly. “See that you do. Listen to what he has to say. He was once a Republic naval officer. He can speak your language and recognizes the poker that might be shoved up your ass.”

With that, she turns to the port, watching the stars. She ignores the thunderous looks directed at her back.

+=+=+=+=+=

Dani walks into the next room. Tussie, the giant lorca that aids Lyndia Gorlute; the filter that keeps Lyndia from being overwhelmed by the emotions of everyday crowds, lifts her large head from her paws. The animal’s twin tails twitch as her ice-blue eyes fall on Dani. Dani walks over and scratches Tussie behind her floppy ears.

She senses a bit of warmth in her own resonance. She walks over to Shyla, who is finally sleeping after yet another bout of withdrawal seizures. She whimpers as Dani touches her forehead, lifting a stray lock of hair from the sweaty skin. Shyla turns over and falls immediately into a deep sleep, something Dani had not felt her do in the last nights of her struggle against the addiction to the spice. An addiction born of despair after the Empire had cast her out from her position as ruler of Corellia.

Dani turns to the chair in the corner. Lyndia Gorlute smiles up at her, then stretches. The mind-healer, a woman about six years older than Dani, had been with Shyla since she had come to this world, first in the care of Sina Faygan’ii, Dani’s older cousin and a surgeon-healer; then Lyndia.

Dani smiles as she thinks of her own stubbornness in the caregiving process. She had her own degrees in psychology, but had never been licensed and had not undergone the training of a mind-healer.

She wouldn’t have been a help in any case. She who had faced death, loss, and danger over the past decade, had not been able to face Shyla’s terrors as the healing had begun. Lyndia had taken Dani in her arms and had simply said. “It’s okay to take care of yourself, too, Daaineran.”

Lyndia stands up, looks Dani up and down. She smiles and moves slowly over to Dani. She greets Tussie with a quick kiss to the lorca’s curly skull, then pulls Dani into her arms. They stand in each other’s arms for a moment, then break away, turning to look down at the patient. 

“I think she’s over the worst of it. I think she might be able to sleep tonight without the facilitating drug,” Lyndia says quietly. 

Dani nods. She had been on hand for the injection of the first dose of the drug; a drug that would enhance the healing and addiction-breaking of Lyndia’s powerful empathic resonance. Dani senses that Lyndia is dealing, even now, with the after effects of that particular use; a skill that only licensed mind-healers can attempt. The after effects are particularly harsh when the subject has no resonance of their own. 

She reaches down and kisses Shyla, first on her forehead, then on her lips. She pulls the mind-healer over to the couch next to the door. She sits down and eases Lyndia into her arms, opening her own resonance. She knows that her resonance is not as attuned to healing as Lyndia’s, but she has plenty of experience in aiding recovery. She is glad that for once, the subject of her resonance’s ‘recovery mode’ doesn’t lie bleeding, broken, or burned next to her.

Daaineran Faygan sighs. She’s had plenty of experience in soothing hurts of the mind and heart as well. _Someday someone will help heal her own fractured heart_ , flies unbidden into her thoughts. She fights her tears as she strokes Lyndia’s burnished red-gold hair.

Tussie gets up and pads over to the couch; resting her giant head on Dani’s bare knee. She opens herself to the overspill of emotion from the youngest in the room.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka slowly comes back to herself, the incessant chiming sounding in her mind as Bryne moves away from her. She manages not to whimper at the loss of connection with his warm skin.

_Wait, bells? Chiming?_

She lifts up, finally opening her eyes. She sees the symbol projecting over her comm, flashing in the dark. Bryne rolls his eyes, then dials the light up. Neither bother covering themselves.

Lassa Rhayme’s thunderous face replaces the symbol. She smirks as she takes in their nudity. _She’s seen it all before,_ Ahsoka thinks. _Even together._

“Did I call at a bad time? 

A definite affirmative is heard from the Corellian next to her.

Ahsoka shushes him, then turns back. Her eyes narrow at the return of the thunder on the pirate’s azure face. “What is it, now, Lassa?” she asks resignedly. 

“What the hell do you mean sending this smartassed teenager to me? Lassa explodes. “I’m on the verge of losing my crew and you send me a baby to look after?”

Ahsoka manages to keep her reply even. “She’s proven herself. She’s raw, but dedicated and a quick learner. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t have time—” Lassa starts.

Ahsoka hears the snort from beside her. She makes to shush him, but is too late.

“This is bullshit, Rhayme,” Covenant says. “I’ve seen you teach new crewmembers with one hand tied behind your back. As I matter of fact, I’ve done the tying.”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes. _Too much information_. She starts to rub the bridge of her nose as the arguing starts in earnest. She lets it go on for a few minutes, figuring that it isn’t directed at her. She has enough and cuts it off by lifting her foot and shoving Covenant from the bed. Lassa starts to grin, but stifles it as she sees Ahsoka’s expression. 

“What do you really want, Lassa?” she asks. Her eyes soften as she sees Lassa slump, her expression downcast. 

“I think Thyla may be in trouble.”

Ahsoka is quiet. She knows what it took from Lassa to let her navigator go off on her own, several years ago, to heal. She glances at Covenant, who has stood up, his own eyes sad. She knows that he is thinking of his own part in Thyla’s pain.

“What kind of trouble?” she asks quietly.

“The kind of trouble that gets you dancing at the end of a rope.”

She looks at Bryne. He looks away. “I’m sorry, Lassa,” he says. “I’m already committed to something else. Something that may cost someone else their life if I back out.”

Lassa starts to say something; closes her mouth. 

Ahsoka looks at him; at his pain. She shakes her head, beckons to him to climb back in bed. She thinks of her own responsibilities. She kisses Bryne, then looks at Lassa.

“I think I can help,” she says. “Get me the details.” She can’t bear to look at Lassa’s raw gratitude. She cuts the connection. A thought occurs to her, bringing a slight smile to her face.

Bryne looks at her. “I know that look. You’re up to something, Runt,” he says.

“Mind your own business, Bait.” She pulls him over to her, shoves him down to her middle. “You’re not quite finished, there, sport. Entertain me,” she adds imperiously.

As the sensations of his mouth on her build, she thinks of connections. She wonders if she can pull one off, without anyone getting stabbed or shot. 

Especially her.

+=+=+=+=+=

Shyla Merricope yawns as she feels a warm hand move over the skin of her face. The yawn turns into a sigh of contentment as the fingers of the hand move through her hair. Her body is limp, slumped against Dani Faygan’s side as she recovers from the recovery of one more healing session with Lyndia Gorlute. 

The mind-healer and her six-legged fuzzy assistant had left, moving to another room, one shielded from any emotional overspill; to a well deserved rest. 

Shyla inhales sharply. She is as healed; as free of the addiction, as she can be. She glances over to Dani’s face, her eyes now closed, but with the shadows of her worry etched under her eyes. Shyla wonders if her lover will be as resilient in the next phase of Shyla’s duty to Corellia. One that would take her away from her family; and her world, in defense of both. She reaches down and kisses Dani, knowing that she is awake. Dani smilies lazily, then stretches before pulling Shyla on top of her. “Mmm,” she says. “Glad my mother took Jamelyn to her chambers to finish her sleep.”

Shyla grins. “Why? You didn’t want her asking certain awkward questions?”

“No. Didn’t want an audience,” Dani replies. Her eyes grow sad. “I guess this means you have to go, doesn’t it?”

Shyla looks away. “I need to. You need to trust me, no matter what you hear, love.” Her eyes tear as she brings her gaze back to Dani’s. “If I could do this without hurting you—” she starts.

Dani silences her words with her lips. “Hush. You can’t hurt me. I knew this would probably not go anywhere. Neither one of us are exactly the most stable, given our occupations.

“Are you still going to Coruscant? For Kanyly’s installation as Senator for Zeltros?” Dani finishes.

“Yeah. Bryne and I’ll be leaving soon.” Her eyes soften. “I have more people looking out for me than I deserve. Bryne. You. Lyndia. Your mother.” She thinks of the conversations that she has had with Alyysina Faygan, the Chalice of Omri—the chosen protector of her world. A woman who had only recently re-connected with her daughter. She shakes her head; remembering the feelings of regret, love, and pride for Dani. Regret for deceiving her; for faking her death for her duty to her world.

Something that Dani had said suddenly strikes her. “What did you mean, Daaineran, when you said I couldn’t hurt you?”

Dani is silent for several minutes. Shyla watches her hands move down to the chain across her hips. She lifts the red-gold spirit-resin jewel from above her middle. Shyla can just make out the tooth inset into the spirit. A tooth similar to ones she had seen on Bryne Covenant’s gunbelt, as well as around his neck on his informal Covenant Chain.

“I’ve lost before, Shy,” Dani says. She looks around, as if expecting someone to be eavesdropping. “I loved a Jedi. She was my heart. We even wound up taking the vows of heart-bonds.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Just before the Republic died.

“Just before the Jedi died.”

Shyla pulls her in tighter. She kisses away the brief flurry of tears under Dani’s eyes. “I didn’t know, Dani,” she says. “I would’ve never—” She trails off.

“What, Shy?” Dani asks. “Never lived life to the fullest with me?” She takes Shyla’s hand and places it on her chest. Shyla can feel the strong beat. “This is how my people are— _no it’s who we are._ We have to _connect_. Not just this,” she waves her hand over their bodies, “but ones of the heart and mind, as well.” Her smile grows softer. “Maybe with those that we can always go home to.” She kisses Shyla again. “I know what kind of galaxy we live in. We both have our jobs to do. Our parts to play in this tragedy.” She laughs. “Or farce, as it may be.”

She turns and flips Shyla on her back. “Let’s live while we can,” she says, climbing on top of the older woman. 

Shyla draws in another deep breath as Dani opens her resonance—the gift of her people. She wonders if Dani will be able to trust her, ever again. With what she might have to do on the Smugglers’ Moon.

She pushes back against Dani, for an instant. “Dani, promise me. Promise me that you’ll look after Lexa. That you’ll make sure my daughter understands what I’m doing.” Her eyes tear again as she sees the teenaged copy of herself in her mind’s eye. 

Dani pauses in her move down Shyla’s body. “Like she’s my own,” Dani vows.

As the pleasure builds, Shyla Merricope, once the elected leader of a powerful world, wonders if she will ever see her daughter again; whether what she has to do with the Hutts can ever be redeemed


	4. But you shall know. I’ve carried in my heart too long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Shaak keeps herself calm, allowing serenity to overtake her anger. “The Face-Dance? It’s the reason I had you pulled as his Shadow-Teacher. You’re the only one who has successfully used it. I use the term successfully, loosely,” she finishes, a warning tone in her voice._
> 
> _“He’s still able to use it,” Marek says._
> 
> _“Yes, but with someone’s oversight who isn’t still bitter that the Force called me to choose him as padawan,” Shaak says._

The mother watches her child and the young girl—her child’s own adoptive daughter and ward, laugh over their breakfast food. She smiles at the laughter, closing her eyes, allowing the emotions to play over her resonance. 

Alyysina Faygan, known on the Land of Song, as this bright world is called, as the Chalice of Omri, picks up her caf and brings it to her lips without opening her eyes. A gentle touch on her resonance pulls her always-black eyes open. She sees Dani smiling at her. Alyys quickly catalogues the touch from her daughter.

_Pure love._

Once again, she allows the touch of pride into her senses. Pride at what this young woman has been able to accomplish, in spite of the trials of her life. The supposed loss of her mother. A stint of trying to run away from the foster family on Naboo—realizing quickly that they had taken her to their hearts, allowing her to take their youngest daughter to her heart, helping both of them—bitter adolescent and curious little girl—grow.

Then a new world with a loving, if unacknowledged, father. A world that brought her purpose, but also the deepest heartbreak. A heartbreak that she would probably never have experienced if she had stayed on Zeltros; had never had her nascent skills for mayhem and chaos nurtured. 

Alyys takes in a deep breath as she sees Dani look out the window of the sunroom, at the old Republic cruiser resting on the landing platform of this mountain enclave. She, who has only truly known her daughter again for less than a year, recognizes the pain and grief—just a fleeting look as she thinks of those on that ship, resting from the fight.

Those who share her grief, both for themselves and their sister-of-the-heart. 

Alyys’s eyes widen as she sees Jamelyn, without even a touch of the gift of her mother-of-the-heart, get up and walk over to Dani. She climbs up into Dani’s lap, even though she is a bit big for the maneuver, and pulls her into a deep hug. Alyys allows the tears to well as she sees Jamelyn whispering in Dani’s ear. 

After a moment, Dani looks at her mother and smiles. She reaches over and takes Dani’s hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. Alyys decides to move Dani’s thoughts to another. “When will Shyla leave?” she asks. 

Dani looks back at the ship. “It may be today.” She puts her hands over Jamelyn’s ears, earning her a glare. “It depends on whether Bryne and Ahsoka can pull away from each other long enough for them to leave.”

“What about you, dear? You could be lying in her arms while waiting.” For a moment, Alyys marvels at their language in describing acts of the bodies—something that her people have no problem voicing in the bluntest of terms.

Dani turns her eyes to the floor. “We decided that it was better to make a clean break,” she whispers. 

Alyys’s heart falls at the soft words. She stands and walks over, pulling Dani against her heart, with Jamelyn in her arms. She says nothing, merely strokes her hair.

Dani leans into the embrace. “It’s for the best. I don’t know what the future holds.”

Alyys takes a deep breath, debating if she can give any solace. She decides to do what she does best. “I love you, Daaineran. I would never hurt you. But I don’t think that your heart-bond would begrudge you living and loving. Not from how you described her.”

Dani is silent. For a moment, Alyys wonders if she has pushed too far in trying to help the younger woman heal. 

“I know. It’s not that. I don’t know. Shyla has her own demons as well, plus her own responsibilities. I get the sense that she’s pushing me away. She feels like she has to atone for a lot, blaming herself for being pushed out of government. I’ve tried to tell her that if she had pushed more, had fought more, the Imperials would’ve had her kneeling at the Ending Wall, staring into the barrel of a slugthrower.”

Alyys nods. “I know. I appreciate how she’s made you feel. But there’s only so much that you, Sina, Lyndia, Bryne or I can do. She has to forgive herself. I think that will make her truly free of the spice that she turned to. Speaking of her responsibilities,” she says, “I would be privileged and happy if Lexa would consent to come here; so that I can look after her.” She looks down, contemplating the marble of the floor. “I missed out on so much,” she finishes, dropping her voice to a whisper. 

Dani kisses her gently. “I know, _abeeyeh_ ,” she says, her lips moving to her mother’s hair. “You did what you had to do.”

Alyys is unable to speak. Dani allows her the respite. “I’ll speak to them both. Lexa is almost of age; she should have some say in it. 

“Maybe I could take her as an Acolyte. That would afford her certain protections.” She smirks. “Might learn a few other things, as well.”

“Great,” Dani says. “I’ll be responsible for corrupting her, in Corellia’s eyes.” She grows serious, her eyes marked by gratitude. “I think Shyla would be honored.”

Both women look at each other as a certain wave—a wave of warmth and pleasure that both of them had been experiencing from the ship over the last night. Alyys grins. “So, this new bond you have with those two and the others. Have y’all actually been in the same sector recently?”

Dani grins at the hint of a Corellian inflection in her mother’s Coruscanti accent. “Not really. Not all of us.” Her grin broadens. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt anything.”

Alyys notices that Jamelyn is hanging on every word, as well as trying to process the emotions. Both Zeltrons shield their resonances. “I think that I have an urge to throw a little brat into the pool.” She leans down and pulls Jamelyn into her arms as the little girl’s eyes light up, all thought of the meaning of those words, mild as they were, disappearing. 

“Try to get her to wear the suit. I know it’s a losing battle with you, but I’d prefer her not to strip down at the sight of any body of water larger than the Capitol Fountains in Coronet.”

Alyys rolls her eyes. “You’re no fun.” She reaches down and kisses Dani on the forehead.

As she leaves, she feels her daughter open herself up to the sensations coming from the ship; from two of her hearts.

Another Link, as she is, in the Covenant’s True Chain. 

She sees the pure joy on her daughter’s face, at those two hearts of her’s living.

Alyys also feels a hint of lingering grief in the joy. She sees Dani touch the bonding chain at her waist.

The Chalice of Omri, the powerful protector of this world, feels her own helplessness arise at her inability to help her daughter ease that grief and pain.

+=+=+=+=+=

Dilanni sighs as he looks out over the expanse of bright colors standing before him. He waits quietly for the jungle rancor to pass, before gently snapping the reins of the tee-muss. The mount shakes its head, its large ears flopping at the apparent proximity of the large, slow moving predator. 

A smaller version of himself looks at him expectantly from the other mount. He drops one of his goggled eyes in a wink, then makes a clicking noise with his mouth; allowing the mount to make her own decision about moving down the ridgeline to the almost translucent beauty of the jungle. 

As the two mounts move, Dilanni closes his eyes at the passing gaps in the foliage, at newly-sprouting tufts of nysillin, the valuable medicinal spice that is the lifeblood of he and those like him.

He shakes his head. _At least those who he used to be like._ The Imperial squeeze on the market, as well as their propensity for using cheap prisoner, or more likely, slave labor to plant, cultivate, and harvest the drug, had forced him from the life he had known since spawning. 

That and his inability since an incident several years ago with pirates had identified a certain propensity in him. A lack of fear, and a propensity with that new found fearlessness to be unable to tolerate too many of those in charge of him. A propensity that had forced him from his mate, who had found solace with another, more pliant and less prideful soul once he had left. 

He purses his lips in a thin line. _Can’t blame her. Who wants to be tied to a poverty stricken scavenger and tylok hunter_? One who refused employment with the Imperial concerns that had taken over production, leaving the nysillin farmers with little, or even less to call their own than they had when they were free. 

He looks back at his son. The one bright spot in his existence; who had chosen to leave his mother and his twin sister and go off with him—a fact that galled his former mate; even as she had allowed it. He tries not to think of his daughter in the home of another, wishing beyond wishes that she was here on the mount beside him with Geordai. He grins with pride at both of his children—both apparently free of the fear that had once paralyzed him; had made him fearful of fighting for himself. A fear present until three Jedi and four bounty hunters had shown him a new way. He allows himself to grieve, knowing that there was no place for such as the Jedi in the New Order of things. He especially mourns the young girl, the one with so much promise and bright intelligence. 

“No time for ghosts,” he says to himself, hoping that he speaks low enough for Geordai not to hear him. 

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts, Father,” his malespawn says. The boy softens his words with a careful grin. 

Dilanni laughs and gently pushes at Geordai’s head with his hand. “You just don’t worry about that. Let’s get to that old Temple. I’ll protect you from the Horned One,” he says.

He allows his smile to fade and looks into the jungle. It will soon be time to dismount, leaving the tee-muss tied to a tree and moving forward into the jungle on foot, where several nests of tylok was known to mass, no doubt emboldened by the legends of the Horned One, a specter whose fearsome visage was known to curdle the blood, especially if she unsheathed the column of light in her hand.

Idly, he thinks of that young Jedi and her green blade. The babblings of fearful scavengers had told that this specter had ignited a blue blade. 

Dilanni curses and stops his mount. He dismounts and draws his needle-rifle, checks it. The money from the pelts, as well as the meat will feed him, his son, and several of his old villagers; those who would not venture into the jungle, who had taken the offers of the Imperials. 

Geordai busies himself taking his own weapon, and hobbling the mounts. As they move down the narrower trail, Dilanni is suddenly seized by bone-chilling fear. He looks forward, forcing himself not to turn and run the half-kilometer they had made in progress. 

He curses again, this time louder, as he realizes that the Temple ruins seem to be much closer than he had thought, the gray stone growing from the jungle. He forces himself to take deeper breaths, to remember that he is now Dilanni the Fearless. He moves forward. 

As he does, he is unaware of several sets of eyes watching them. Sets of eyes under plastoid helmets. 

His watchers are unaware that they are being watched as well. Watched by calm violet eyes; the eyes of legend on the owner’s original world.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka bites her lower lip against the rising pleasure; fighting the urge to close her eyes to focus on the expanding roundels of light and fire in her mind. She instead focuses on warm green with gold flecks; colors that are focused on her own blue with laserlike intensity. She can feel his jaw tightening against the sensations as their skin slides against one another. 

She happens to look over at the small mirror on the dresser, a glance that gives her a full view of their bodies. Of Covenant resting on his lower legs, his arms holding her tightly to him, the knuckles of his upper hand caressing the underside of her rear lek. She sees his head go back from where his face had been mere centimeters from him, his eyes closing. 

_I guess that he has to concentrate in some way, as well_ , she thinks, even as she mourns the loss of the gaze. She looks over at the mirror again, wraps her legs tighter around his back, allowing her fingers to loosen their grip on his chest. She reaches down and kisses the red fingernail marks on his lighter skin. Her breathing deepens as he pulls his face back to hers in an almost lazy fashion. His lips quirk, an instant before they track down her right lek. 

Conscious thought leaves her mind for an instant as those lips fasten on her breasts. She rises up and sinks on him, allowing him deeper. Ahsoka feels as if they will fall into each other and never escape the light that builds. 

She is not convinced that this would be a bad thing; if they could allow certain others in from time to time. Others now bound to them in a loose chain of his world’s heritage, of which they are merely Links. She laughs, bringing a raised eyebrow from him in mid-counterpoint. She can hear his slight drawl, mixed with the broad Mandalorian accent of his troops, adopted from the southern reaches of that desolate world. An accent apparent only present on certain words and syllables. 

_None of y’all are ‘merely’ anything to me, Runt._

She feels herself close as another instant of thought punches at the edge of the remaining brain cells not focusing on the feel of his skin against hers as well as his—

Ahsoka nearly cries out in despair as the single thought cuts through her. She pulls him closer, her arms going around him with her legs, as the pain of what might keep them from pulling a planet in around them and never coming out.

_Duty._

She feels his warm hand; the left—marked with various hurts and scars touch her right cheek. He stares into her eyes, something like understanding flowing into his. Understanding mixed with his own pain.

They both tumble over the falls, their eyes locked on one another, their hands on each other’s cheeks. There is no consciousness in either of their minds, only the warmth of the light and the explosions. Their Force-senses intertwined; none of the universe that they are bound to anywhere near them in this moment.

Only themselves and their cries, of course. 

Ahsoka rests her face against his chest, both of them still connected. After a moment, she allows herself to slip backwards in his arms, her own head thrown back. As it slips backward, her eyes open and focus on the mirror. She jumps as her eyes fall on what blocks their reflection in the mirror.

Dani Faygan sits perched on the dresser, her crimson legs crossed, bared under a loosely buttoned gold and black flannel shirt. She sips delicately from a caf cup; her right hand is occupied with a large breakfast pastry in a napkin. A certain amount of the glaze decorates her lips. 

Lips that just might be as bruised as hers feel. Idly, as her indignation rises, she realizes incongruously that Dani’s pinky is extended decorously from the caf cup. 

“Dani, what the hell?” Ahsoka hears from the man tangled in her arms and legs. To their credit, neither of them pull apart or reach for any cover. They do try and lower their heartrates and breathing. Something made a bit more difficult by the reflection of their pleasure from the young woman’s empathic gift. 

Ahsoka shakes her head ruefully. Some Jedi, she thinks. Neither of them had sensed her in their _concentration_ on each other. 

Dani smiles. “Just thought I’d come in here and see what all the excitement was all about. What is this, the third time? Even the distance from the ship to the enclave wasn’t enough.”

“The fourth,” both Ahsoka and Bryne say in unison.

“My mistake,” Dani says dryly. “It was either me or my mother. Guess I got the short straw,” she finishes. She looks down at their middles and grins slightly. “Maybe not.”

Ahsoka giggles at Covenant’s expression. She softens it by kissing him quickly, plus giving a slight wiggle in his lap. “Well, not that your mother wouldn’t be interesting, Dani,” he says, “but why are you here? Everybody seems to want to interrupt.”

“Just was going to tell you that Shyla is ready to go when you are, Bryne,” she says. She looks down, the pain apparent on her face. “I’m sorry, loves,” she says. 

Ahsoka looks at Bryne. Without a word, she beckons for Dani to join them. She sets the cup and pastry down and settles on the floor. She knees her way over the bed, pulling them both into an embrace. Ahsoka watches Bryne pull his thumb over Dani’s lips, taking the residue of the pastry with it. She Smirks as he puts his thumb in his mouth. Dani rolls her eyes. “You idiot,” is all that she says as she pulls them both closer. 

They rest like that for several moments, until Dani moves her hands to both of their asses. “Too bad you won’t be here to celebrate my name-day with me,” she says. 

Ahsoka and Bryne grin together. “Yeah, too bad. Never been to a Zeltron birthday celebration before,” she says.

“Oh, it’s a lot like other worlds’. Except naked.”

Ahsoka looks away. “We’ll be away from each other the next couple of months. We’ll probably miss ours as well. Nola’s, too. At least together,” she whispers. 

She sees both Bryne’s and Dani’s looks at one another, their eyes sad. All three of them look at the chronometer on the bulkhead display. Their foreheads touch each other in sadness at the short time. 

“Maybe we can meet in the middle somehow,” Dani says. “Mine’s a few days from now, yours is a month or so after that. Sausage-boy is a month or so after yours. There’s got to be a way.”

“It’s okay,” Ahsoka says. “I got to be at his thirtieth. And yours, Dani.”

As she pulls both of them into an embrace again, Ahsoka doesn’t see the look in Dani’s eyes.

A look of someone who has made a decision.

A look given an instant before her purple eyes transition to the black.

+=+=+=+=+=

**The Past: The Jedi Temple**

Shaak Ti sips her caf as she looks out over the already bustling traffic patterns of Coruscant, the system’s star peeking out through the modernity with bright intensity. She takes a deep breath, thinking about the day to come and what it will mean to the one in her charge. She smiles, letting her teeth show as no one is around to be intimidated by the sharp incisors. Only three years an official padawan, before that her unofficial child of the Hunt; he had come so far in his growth. 

The smile takes on a rueful quality. _If only he could grow in his ability to govern his mouth. Or his propensity for mischief._

Shaak hears a noise behind her, turns and sees the scrum of Clawmouse Clan moving to the refectory. The bright laughter of the younglings and the semi-seriousness of the initiates. She locks eyes with the bright blue of a younger version of her species, with only a leather headdress dividing her montrals and forehead. She shakes her head as the young girl gives her cheeky smile. Tano’s face grows serious, her thoughts on her mobile face. No doubt cataloging her own role in Taliesin Croft’s latest exercise in snark and failure to govern his tongue.

_Well, not just the words_. She thinks of the fading bruise on the jaw of the Bear Clan student-master, a padawan who had made the mistake of mocking young Tano and the one lightsaber parry she struggled with. One out of dozens she had mastered quickly. 

Shaak drops one eyelid in a wink at the girl and gives a head shake. She is rewarded by a once-again bright smile. As the group moves away, she hopes that the punishment of cooking in the refectory will not interfere with his day; a day with an important test for her young padawan.

She turns back to the view, letting the semi-fresh air flow over her face. A presence makes itself known; a presence she has felt since she could remember.

“Hello, Lorhena,” she says without turning. A human woman of her own age walks up next to her. She glances out of the side of her eye, letting it play over Lorhena Marek’s features. A very large pair of dark blue eyes stare back at her, under a cap of long, straight hair.

“Not much of a Shadow, if you can’t sneak up on me,” Shaak says.

A brief ghost of a smile plays on the other Master’s lips. “What if I didn’t want to sneak up on you?” She grows serious. “Big day today,” she adds, turning her full attention on Shaak, as if gauging her reaction.

“Yes, it is,” Shaak replies simply. 

“I think he’ll pass with flying colors.” Lorhena replies. “Quin Vos seems to think he might be one of the best we’ve seen.”

“I know he will. In spite of interference with his non-Shadow training.”

The words hang in the air as if frozen. Lorhena nods. “I guess you’re going to hold that against me for awhile, Ti,” she says. “You can’t get over the fact that I saw something in him, an ability that you don’t understand.”

Shaak keeps herself calm, allowing serenity to overtake her anger. “The Face-Dance? It’s the reason I had you pulled as his Shadow-Teacher. You’re the only one who has successfully used it. I use the term successfully, loosely,” she finishes, a warning tone in her voice.

“He’s still able to use it,” Marek says. 

“Yes, but with someone’s oversight who isn’t still bitter that the Force called me to choose him as padawan,” Shaak says. 

Marek closes her mouth. Finally, she smiles. “Let’s not argue over the past, Shaak,” she says. “When he passes, I have need of assistance.” She holds up her hand. “From both of you.”

Shaak turns back to the sky, her thoughts roiling with the request.

“Bait! Bait!, the voice cuts into the bright sun. “Come on Bryne. What the hell’s the matter?” Ahsoka’s voice grows more insistent. “Jame,” she says.

Bryne feels her hands on his arms as his mind clears. He realizes they are standing in the entryport of the _Draq’stone._

Fully clothed, thankfully. 

He stares into her eyes, the worry etched into her features. 

Bryne focuses on the slight blue-orange light in his senses, allowing it to wash over him. To calm him. He takes a deep breath, trying to remember how he had actually gotten dressed and to the entryport, when his last memory is of lying naked in Ahsoka’s and Dani’s arms.


	5. This secret burden. Has not silence wrought your wrong—

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She notices Adis looking at her with a curious expression on his face. She takes a sip of her water again (thanking all of the gods on Alderaan that she had only taken a sip of the fermented flower-water that passed for alcohol on Felucia; she had only just stopped coughing and testing her gag reflex) and finally asks, “What?”_
> 
> _Adis starts, as if caught. He looks down, sheepishly, the tails under his headdress shaking. Meglann waits patiently._
> 
> _He takes a deep breath. “Who was your mother, Junior? I feel like I know you—especially with your name.”_
> 
> _It is her turn to look away. “My mother was a Republic pilot; later a ship’s officer in the Judicials and then the Navy. My father was another zoomie. They both died over Ryloth.”_
> 
> _He nods, smiling slightly. “You couldn’t be anyone else’s daughter than Elann Florlin’s.” His smile grows softer. “Megaton.”_

Meglann watches the entrance as she sips her water. Next to her, squeezed into the small booth at the back of the tiny cantina, the already comforting bulk of San Adis shifts with slight impatience.  

She grins as she looks at him. “I ain’t made to sit around too much. I like to take things slow and watch, but this is glacial,” he says in response.  

“Good to know, Guns,” she says. “Just in case I’m ever wanting to try antiques,” she finishes. 

He rolls his eyes and blushes, as she had anticipated. “I can tell that you’ve been learning shit from a couple of people I happen to know, Junior.” 

After several days of being exposed to this new nickname, she had accepted it. She had come to understand who, for this crew, she was a younger copy of. Meglann found herself listening to Adis’s stories with rapt attention. Especially the ones about the crew’s official quartermaster; telling her of the crew’s adventures with Ahsoka—a quartermaster only a few years older than she is. 

They had been sitting here only for the better part of a day—after a day squeezed into the A-Wing trainer in hyperspace. Adis had immediately stretched and turned away from her suggested walk to the Imperial outpost. “Nope,” he had said to her thunderous look. “You want information in any backwater, you head for the nearest place that serves alcohol, sweets.” 

She was thankful for the time to people watch and listen to the conversations in Basic around her. This particular section of Felucia didn’t have a formal spaceport, merely an unofficial, rudimentary landing field away from the settlement. 

She notices Adis looking at her with a curious expression on his face. She takes a sip of her water again (thanking all of the gods on Alderaan that she had only taken a sip of the fermented flower-water that passed for alcohol on Felucia; she had only just stopped coughing and testing her gag reflex) and finally asks, “What?” 

Adis starts, as if caught. He looks down, sheepishly, the tails under his headdress shaking. Meglann waits patiently. 

He takes a deep breath. “Who was your mother, Junior? I feel like I know you—especially with your name.” 

It is her turn to look away. “My mother was a Republic pilot; later a ship’s officer in the Judicials and then the Navy. My father was another zoomie. They both died over Ryloth.” 

He nods, smiling slightly. “You couldn’t be anyone else’s daughter than Elann Florlin’s.” His smile grows softer. “Megaton.” 

She draws a sharp breath. “You knew her?” she asks as she exhales. 

“Yep. I was a pilot in her bomber squadron, before she discovered that she rather be an idiot who flies faster rather than smarter and transferred to fighters. We were wingmen for awhile. I guess that’s where you got your first name,” he finishes.  

Meglann falls silent. Adis lifts her hand and squeezes, rubbing the back with his thumb. “She was a good pilot. She was getting to be a good leader.” 

“Did you know my father? Therion Dao?” 

“Hammer? Only by reputation. Never thought he’d be an Admiral. Or be able to charm  anyone with a brain like Megaton’s.” 

She grins. “Yeah. She had that effect. Lassa said you were a Republic naval officer. How did you wind up on a pirate crew?” 

Adis looks away. Meglann is suddenly fearful that she has let her mouth run to the exclusion of her brain. Adis continues to massage her hand. 

“No, don’t worry, sweets. She was slightly incorrect. I was a Republic Judicial Officer. I was only a Chief Gunner’s Mate in the Navy.” 

She raises her eyebrow slightly. “Why?” 

He smiles, his eyes growing even more sad. “Because the Navy frowned on officers who adopt several refugee Twi’leks after he rescues them, with his wife, who couldn’t have children of her own.” 

Meglann starts to smile, then sees the still-sad expression. Her eyes widen at his distant look. “What happened?” she whispers. 

“Turns out the Republic shouldn’t have concerned themselves about it. They were caught by a Separatist attack on their convoy.”  

Meglann feels her eyes start to tear, as she knows what is coming. She makes to move closer. He holds up his hand. “No, dear. I’m okay. The thing that I regret the most is that I ran after it happened. I deserted. 

“My CO, a woman who I loved as much as I’ve loved even my family, marked me down as ‘Discharged Dead’, rather than as ‘Run’. That Corellian horndog of a Jedi that Lassa thinks so highly of, or at least screws on a regular basis, found out later. He never said anything.” 

He raises his glass. “To Rear-Admiral Jana Sloane and General Taliesin Croft. May they rest in peace.” 

Meglann nods, even at his knowing expression when he speaks the last name. 

A commotion breaks them from their silent remembrance. 

A male Felucian, his goggles askew, runs into the bar. His eyes are panicked. “I saw the Spirit!  I saw her!” he yells. 

A low murmur, accompanied by multiple eyerolls greets the Felucian. “If it isn’t Dilanni the Fearless. I thought you didn’t believe in that nonsense, as you called it, when you scoffed at us,” one barfly says. There is laughter. 

“Please,” the newcomer, Dilanni, says. “We were ambushed by Imperial troops out by the Old Gray Place. She suddenly appeared and attacked the troops. She had a laser sword, just like the Jedi who fought for us in this village!” 

There is another low murmur. Dilanni chuffs in frustration. He pulls out a holopad. A figure is projected above the pad. “I have a holo!” 

Meglann hears Adis draw a sharp breath—an instant after she does. 

They look at one another, at the tall, lekkued figure, clad in light homespun skins—clothing that leaves most of her scarlet body bare. White markings can be seen clearly on the skin.  

At least one of the two has seen those same markings, albeit fewer with relative youth, on the bare skin of another. 

Meglann realizes Adis is looking at her. “How do you know her?” he asks.  

“Dani showed me a holo of her dead heart-bond, Shaak Ti,” she replies, her eyes fixed on the figure. “How about you?” 

“She’s that Corellian’s master. She helped us rescue a young woman from some Seppie charmer that was trying to build a retirement fund.” 

Meglann nods. “I think some people might want to know this.” They hear another commotion as someone shoves Dilanni. He regains his feet. 

“The Imps took my boy. I need to get back there!” 

The sound of metal clad feet stops all conversation as four stormtroopers enter the bar, accompanied by an Army trooper; an officer. 

Dilanni is about to make it out of the door, when he slams into the bulk of a large Tholothian. 

“Come on, bud,” Adis says, pulling the Felucian behind him to hide behind his bulk. “I think we can help you.” Meglann pulls them both towards a back exit. 

Behind them, the Imperials begin to shove the locals out of the bar, looking at each Felucian as they do. 

+=+=+=+=+= 

Ahsoka stares at Bryne as he does his best to avoid her eyes. She reaches up to touch his cheek, instead, at the last second, grasps his ear and pulls him closer to her. 

“Ow!” he shouts. “What the hell, Runt?” 

She doesn’t back down as he finally stares into her eyes. “What the hell do you mean, what the hell, Bryne?”she asks acerbically. “What was that?” She tightens her grip on his ear. “If you say ‘what’, I’m going to twist something else. Something lower.” 

He smirks and opens his mouth, but shuts it at her look. “Nothing,” he finally says.  

She grits her teeth and stares at him for what feels like an eternity. This time he holds her gaze, staring directly into the blue heat and light. She looks away first, trying to hide her grin. _He might not think that’s punishment, as much time he spends staring into my eyes when we’re together_ , she thinks. She closes her eyes as she thinks of how short a time that actually is. 

He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been having weird dreams this time,” he says, whispering the words. She pulls him closer, holding him tightly. “I’ve been dreaming about Ti,” she hears against her left lek. 

This time, she does place her hand on his cheek, her thumb stroking his lips. She waits patiently. She doesn’t have to wait for long. 

“I dream that I see that she survived on Kamino, just before I fell to the water. I see that she’s alive despite a through-and-through lightsaber thrust to the heart and a blaster wound to the head.” 

She draws her breath in, not daring to exhale as she listens. 

“I dreamed that I abandoned her alive on that world. To the Empire.” 

After another heartbeat or two, she speaks. “You know that you didn’t, don’t you? There’s no way that she could’ve survived wounds like you described to me, Jame.” His eyes start as she uses his birthname. 

“I know. But these are so real. This last one was different, though. It was a conversation that Shaak had with another Jedi. One that I wasn’t present to hear, but was a part of the outcome.” 

“You’ve heard the rumors, right?” she asks. “The sightings on Felucia?” 

“Yeah. I have. It’s odd that you’re about to go to Felucia.” He looks out of the hatch towards the light of the noon-day sun. “I’ve heard lots of rumors. That she was killed at the Temple. Even one that she died during the Battle of Coruscant. They all sound credible and earnest, but I’ve dismissed them. I was there and saw it. 

“Now I question what I saw.” 

She reaches over and kisses him, her eyes remaining open, as always. She looks down, when they break free, then back up at him. “I’ve been having dreams of my own. About Anakin. I actually am seeing when he died, after these years,” she says. “Or at least some version of it. 

He reaches over and kisses the slight moisture under her eyes away. “Do you think these dreams are connected?” he asks, an edge to his voice. 

She shakes her head. The tips of her lekku twitch in agitation. “I don’t know. We’ve been in each other’s dreams before. I haven’t seen any of these,” she finishes, reaching up and tapping his temple.  

“I wish we could both go to Felucia,” he says, his lips now against the bridge of her nose.  

She shakes her head. “I know. But I have to go to Lassa. To see if I can help save Thyla, if she isn’t dead already.” She pulls him closer. “You have to help Shyla; both to protect her and help Dani’s new in-laws.” 

“I know,” he says.  

“Bait, please be careful on Coruscant. Keep your shields up.” 

He grins ruefully, that crooked expression that takes her breath away, when it doesn’t piss her off. “I may not have to worry. Since we got back from Fondor, I haven’t been able to touch the Force that much. Even less than usual.” 

She reaches up and touches his face, knowing that this arcane power is still in place. A power that conceals his true features to most everybody.  

_Except to those he loves_. Her, most of all, almost from the time that they had known each other.  

“I know,” he says. “That still works. Doesn’t take much; it’s almost second nature.” The grin brightens. “Something’s got to save the universe from my face.” 

She rolls her eyes, punching him in the chest this time. His smile softens.  

“There’s one other thing. I can feel you in my mind; your Force presence.” 

As he breathes for her, and she for him, she can feel his tri-colored light overwhelming her senses. A slight cough near them brings them around from each other. Lyndia Gorlute, the mind-healer, stands next to her service-beast, her right stroking Tussie’s head absently as she watches them.  

Her eyes are filled with concern. 

Ahsoka feels him stiffen in her arms. She notices that he avoids Lyndia’s gaze. 

He touches her cheek, then kisses her for several moments more. He turns and walks down the ramp. 

To a world of darkness. To a place that helped form both of them—their former home. 

+=+=+=+=+= 

Inquisitorial Novice #Thirteen listens as the Imperial garrison commander prattles on about the trials of his office. He ignores the small group near the center of the hangar bay. A male Rodian, one antenna broken off, stands at the center of the group, his arms bound tightly behind him.  

The Novice does notice another Imperial officer standing slightly away from the assembled formation of a small number of stormtroopers and fleet troopers. A tall human, his blonde hair receding from his forehead, a pair of blue eyes watching the proceedings. The officer is dressed in a pure white tunic and the standard black trousers. The Novice notes the look of disgust at the garrison commander. 

In spite of his disinterest, he focuses his attention on the dwindling line of beings dressed in orange prison finery. Most avoid his eyes; avoid looking at the Rodian at the center of attention.  

All save one. A Twi’lek woman, her skin a darker, almost royal purple than the normal blue of a Rutian, stands defiantly, looking at the Rodian, as if encouraging him. Thirteen watches as the Rodian stands straighter under the Twi’lek’s single amber eye and slight smile. 

He turns away, ignoring the retching sounds from the line of prisoners as the whirring noise of the winch cuts through the near-silence. 

Silence only broken by the garrison commander’s prattle. He tunes in for a brief moment, as a sob comes from the line behind him as the winch whirs again.  

“—the pirates are my number one problem in this district. The heavy nysillin production, coupled with the native’s unrest about their loss of meager incomes because of their stubbornness stretches my troops to the breaking point. I need at least a full company of stormtroopers, in addition to these useless fleet troopers. I would wish for at least a mechanized platoon.” 

Thirteen turns to the officer. “Spare me, Major. Smuggling and piracy, as you call it, are not my concern. My only concern is the sightings of potential Jedi activity in your district.” 

The Major’s sallow face twists in a sneer. “I have no time for this mystical mumbo-jumbo. The Jedi are dead—almost a myth these days. I’m concerned with the here and now. I can spare you no troops for your little expedition.” He looks over at the ISB officer. “Maybe you can use the ISB for your little quest—” he starts. Thirteen holds up his open hand, then closes the fist. 

The gagging sound coming from the officer’s mouth rivals the now dwindling sounds from the expiring Rodian. Thirteen hears a gasp from the assembled troops behind him. The officer is lifted from the deck.  

Oddly, the Inquistorial trainee hears laughter, as well, from a light, musical voice. It stops immediately with the sound of metal and plastic striking skin. He ignores the byplay.  

“The Emperor and Lord Vader are very concerned with this ‘mumbo-jumbo’, as you call it,” he says, his dark eyes focused on the officer. “Moreso than a few pirates. I suggest you redeploy your troops, or you might find yourself answering to my Master. He might not be as understanding as I am,” he finishes.  

He drops his hand and turns his back. As he walks out of the hangar, he notices the ISB officer watching him with something like amusement. 

The Twi’lek prisoner watches him as well, her grin undimmed by the blood flowing from her nose. 

He walks out into the sunlight and boards his shuttle. As he sits in the the pilot’s seat, he closes his eyes. He feels the familiar metal move into his outstretched hand. In his mind’s eye, he can see the outlines of the holocron, its multiple sides and angles glowing.  A forbidden object, without the triangular shape of one that might be more acceptable to those humorless Masters.  

The object opens. A woman’s face, her own similar features staring at him. Dark blue eyes smile.  

“You know what you must do, my son. If you hear of my fate, find the Asundrance. It will suit your growing strength in the Force well. You will be a power  to be reckoned with in the Galaxy.” She pauses, then looks down. “I’m bound for Felucia. If my fate is what I think it might be, you can find me again with the Asundrance.” 

Inquistorial Novice # Thirteen closes his eyes, as the unknown woman’s face fades. The gauze over his mind only allows the memories of a world of tall trees and Wookiees. That and three words in the woman’s voice.  

_My little Starkiller._

+=+=+=+=+= 

Bryne sips his whisky, savoring the taste. He exales, moving his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and tries to massage away the pain that has taken up residence behind his eyes. A wave of dizziness strikes him; he manages to fight it off. 

He looks out over the crowd in the large room in the Senatorial complex. Several dozen beings of many of the Empire’s various species are stationed around each other or the mounds of food on the tables near the walls. Bryne shakes his head; wondering how many back-stabbings and backroom deals are taking place before his eyes. He gazes around, looking for a flash of purple and green, trailing tentacles. He had managed to avoid the grasp of one of those appendages on his groin as the mating scents were released. 

Actually more than one of those appendages. He was just glad that he hadn’t gotten bathed in a cloud of the consummation ink. 

He sighs again, takes another sip, repeats. It had been a day and a half of receptions and endless meetings since he and Shyla Merricope had arrived here. He grins to himself as he watches Shyla work the crowd, pressing the flesh. In the transit here, she had kept to herself, with only occasional bouts of talking. Her dark eyes had held both fatigue and wariness, as if waiting to see his reaction about her addiction and recovery. Bryne shakes his head; remembers what she had gone through as he had taken his turn with her and Lyndia as she fought the demons of the addiction. 

He brings his glass up to his lips, realizes mournfully that he has finished it. 

A fresh glass appears in his hand, warm crimson fingers touching his. He grins and sets the dead soldier down as a improbably familiar warmth suffuses his being, centered on his middle.  

At least the resonance doesn’t accompany a burst of a public ink cloud. He nods gratefully at Kanylynan na’Torstan’ii, soon to be installed as the Senator of the You-kah-torin, the Land of Song. A beautiful world with beautiful people; one that he had just left. He grins as her green eyes look him up and down appraisingly. He returns the look, trying not to stare at the dark blue dress that covers only certain strategic spots on her tall, muscular body. He focuses on her face, realizing that those eyes are laughing merrily at him, an instant before a devilish smile creases her lips. 

“So, when’s the wedding? I think your Wendigan paramour is looking for you,” she says.  

He’s sure that she can feel the look to the frescoed ceiling. “Oh, so you’re the one who set them on me. Those damned tentacles nearly had my belt unbuckled, while prattling on and on about Corellian trade routes.” 

She reaches over and kisses him. “Actually, I’m the one who distracted them. They’re over their boring one of my aides. One who’s willing to try most anything.”  Her eyes lose a bit of their laughter. She touches his cheek. “You’re still handsome, bud, but you look awful,” she whispers, her voice filled with concern. 

He grins. “Thanks, I think.” 

She shakes her head. He feels the resonance shift a tiny bit, relaxes. Every Zeltron is able to comfort, but only a few have the gift to help heal the mind and body. 

He realizes that her lips have moved to his ear. He starts as her tongue moves over it. He manages to hear that she is saying. “I know what your gift is, Bryne. I’ve seen it before in others. I think that you might be losing the distortion a bit,” she whispers. He sees a human senatorial aide watching them with an envious look on his face. 

“I know. I haven’t been sleeping lately,” he says.  

A different, lighter toned hand moves on his arm, up towards his other cheek, the other touching Kanyly. He looks into the dark eyes of the ex-Diktat of his world. Shyla, in spite of the faint dark circles  on the skin under those eyes, looks cool and poised in her own black evening gown. “You need to go back to Zeltros. Speak with Lyndia, Bryne. She could help you.” She looks down. “She worked a miracle with me.” 

He rests his forehead against hers. “I know. But I’m not big on head-shrinkers. I only let a few in there; Dani and one other.  There’s nothing wrong with my brain.” 

She shakes her head, a brief expression of exasperation flashing over her face. She looks over at Kanyly, who smiles back at her. 

Shyla takes a breath. “You let me be the judge of that. I’m moving into your cabin tonight. Dani would never forgive me if anything happened to you.” 

He grins. “Should I bring a deck of cards?” 

She rolls her eyes, in harmony with the Senator. “I don’t think you have the stamina for any ‘card-playing’.” She starts to pull both of them towards the exit.  “You need sleep. But I guess we could add to the legend of Bryne Covenant as a master cocksman.” She looks over at Kanyly. “We could really start rumors and reinforce the fact that you think with your little head if the Senator would accompany us.” 

“Well, it’s a dark and dirty job,” he says, dodging a fist to his chest. “For Corellia.” He reaches over and kisses Shyla, then Kanyly. “They’ll go good with the holos they have of us on Corellia, painting the town.” 

Kanyly laughs, then kisses Shyla. “Pity my heart-bond isn’t here. He’d enjoy a bit of cardplaying with you as well,” she says. She gives him a hooded look. “Just as he did a few months ago.” 

Bryne swears that all eyes are on him as he walks out with the two women on his arms. He concentrates on keeping his true face hidden, locking on the blue-orange light in his mind. 

The pain in his head, which had subsided a tiny bit during the byplay with Shyla and Kanyly, returns with a vengeance.


	6. Brought you to dumb and wintry middle-age, with grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For about the thousandth time, the young woman is struck by how careful the Emperor is to not use a certain word._
> 
> _Apprentice._
> 
>   _She had been reminded of her status when she had accidentally used the word while training. The prolonged agony of the combined Force-lightning and Force-choking had left an impression, if only a small amount of actual scars on her skin._
> 
> _You are merely a tool, Nulla, he had said, while inflicting the pain. A blunt instrument, rather than a fine one. Even the name I have given you indicates that you don’t exist. I only have one apprentice._

A man walks into a bar. He surveys the scene, notes those who look out of the ordinary. His blond brows knit together as he realizes that those who had looked out of the ordinary in his earlier visit are no longer there.

To a trained investigator, that in itself is extraordinary. He files the faces of the two in his mind. A young, thin, human female and a heavyset— _okay, skinny and fat_ —Tholothian, sipping their drinks and Felucian-watching. At least until the excited native and his stormtrooper pursuit had interrupted the man’s reveries.

The man takes a deep breath as his mind shifts elsewhere. To the Imperial hanger deck earlier in the day, when he had been clad in a white tunic and black trousers—the dress uniform of one tasked with securing the Empire and its subjects. He grins briefly as he remembers watching the slovenly example of the New Imperial struggling against unseen hands. Unseen, but connected to a young Inquisitor cub.

Kento Mallie’s mind focuses on the cub. There had been something about how the Emperor’s weapon had moved. Something familiar. His eidetic memory recalls every feature of the Novice’s face, at least those parts that were visible over the metal mask that covered the lower part of his face.

Mallie concentrates on the eyes. Eyes a dark blue, near-obsidian, burning red and yellow at the edges. Without the added fiery colors, he had last seen eyes like that during a visit back to an historic town, untouched by the relentless progress of the Corellian Engineering Corporation and other concerns. An enclave protected by law, a law meant to keep Corellia from becoming Coruscant, or Ganthel. A town where he had spent most of the first thirty years of his life.

Until Corellian Security had felt it necessary to send him to the darkest sinkholes of the capital city, Coronet. _For seasoning_ , his Superintendent had said. In reality, it had been that they had needed fresh faces. Ones who hadn’t been corrupted yet, in a particular district of the city. A district that had already become known as the lair of a particularly troublesome criminal gang. A gang that had shown connections to the larger galaxy.

The Lair of the White Worms. Ruled with an iron fist by their Grindalid matriarch, Lady Proxima. A small-time gang, but one that had drawn the attention of the Jedi with some of their offworld affiliations and machinations.

His mind’s eye draws back to the present, to the Inquisitor. Specifically, his movements. Movements that were almost more familiar to him than the eyes.

Kento smiles softly to himself; thinking of the first version of those movements that he had seen. The movement of a Jedi assigned to assist a CorSec Inspector from the sticks. He closes his eyes at the thought of those dark blue eyes looking up into his, of her ink-black-with-with brown-highlights-hair spread out on the pillow underneath him. Hair almost unique in its darkness, with those strange, seemingly intermittent highlights. Highlights that as he had inspected them more closely, had a distinctive pattern.

A pattern seen in the close-shorn scalp of the Inquisitorial trainee. Or, at the very least, recalling them.

He curses himself as a feeling sweeps over him. A feeling he had not experienced in over twenty years. He returns to his watch, hoping that he might be wrong. That she had not just abandoned him, but had lied to him as well; that she had concealed a secret. He shakes his head, as a strange sensation flows over him. One that had drawn him to this lush world. A world in which that same Jedi had last been seen on, around a decade before.

In the company of a Togruta master.

* * *

The young woman fidgets as she peers through the macrobinoculars at the Imperial base. Adis starts to say something as the movements rustle the grass a tiny bit, but stops himself as he sees the expression in her eyes.

Her eyes are focused on the two beings swinging in the wind over the gate. A human male and a Rodian. He watches her eyes track to the tableau in the hangar deck. A Nikto is the center of attention, this time. Standing in the center, his arms and legs bound, the cable about his neck. Adis tries not to see Gri, the young midshipman from the _Opportunity_ in his place. Another who had left the crew to seek his own fortune.

Adis tries and fails. He turns away and focuses on the other four prisoners. He feels his eyes tear as he sees Thyla at the end of the line.

Waiting her turn. So far, the Imp scumbag had kept to his promise, posted on the information boards in the village. One pirate a day will strangle for their crimes. Four more days, unless the Major changes his mind.

Psychopaths often do.

Adis closes his eyes as the machinery whirs, but opens them at a sound from Meglann. She rests her forehead on the ground, her hands still holding the binocs. She had told him of her adventures a few weeks ago. Of standing on a high docking platform, a tightened noose around her neck, as well as that of Ahsoka and Croft—Covenant as he as now known— beside her. She had matter-of-factly described the bone chilling fear, not just of the fact she was about to die a horrible death, but the height and its irrational fear multiplying her terror. He had started to snark about a pilot who feared heights, but he hadn’t, remembering his own daughter’s night terrors.

He does all that he can for her. He places his hand on her back, massaging it gently. He forces the sight of his own child from his mind. He feels Meglann stiffen for a moment, then relax as he gently whispers, “Shhhh.”

The sound of blasterfire cuts through his reverie, just as he is about to lift his hand from her back. They both snap their eyes up, thinking that the Imp has snapped. They relax only a tiny bit as they realize that the next prisoner in line, an Ugnaught in a mechanic’s coverall is lying a short distance away. He had apparently broken and ran, but stun bolts had stopped him, as he is still breathing. Adis curses under his breath as the human male and female, apparently twins, also break and are gunned down, their twitching bodies lying on the deck.

Thyla stands defiant, looking at the guards challengingly. One of the troopers decides to make it an even number and fires two stun bolts into her.

It takes a third before she is completely down, the obstinate smile frozen on her beautiful features. Adis allows a moment of pride to flow through him. He notices that Meglann has moved past her memories. She is looking at the base, analyzing it, even with a shiny’s fresh eyes. Adis’s pride swells again as a progression of young women and men, all of them learning their craft, moves through his memories. All of them living up to the potential, in one form or another that his dead children, a family of Twi’lek refugees, had shown him.

“I’m kinda thinking that your old tub could come in and lay down some covering fire for us,” she says, ignoring his dark look at the characterization of his ship.

“Oh, yeah?” Adis asks. He can see that she is staring at the large cylindrical object behind the base, rising out of the jungle. One tooth toys with her lower lip. He rolls his eyes at the Ahsoka-like mannerism. “Why don’t you slow down, squirt?”he asks. “That ion cannon, coupled with the 360º antiship weapons might preclude the tub in question’s survival.”

She smirks. “I thought you were complaining about how slow things were at the bar,” she says.

“Yeah. I was. But I’m still a ‘let’s walk down there and fuck all of the cows’ type, rather than a ‘run down and fuck a couple’ type.”

“I suspected that nerf-knocking was your thing,” she says dryly.

 _Spare me from smartassed pilots_ , he sends in an apparent entreaty to the heavens.

They both jump as their newfound friend and conscience pops up behind them. Adis marvels at his ability to sneak around the jungle. For a farmer, that is.

“So why haven’t you gotten a plan? This should be easy,” he says.

 _Come to think of it, his voice has taken on kind of a whiny quality_ , Adis thinks.

Meglann smiles softly. “I know, Dilanni. We just want everybody to get out alive.

“I’ve snuck in there many times. Since I can’t farm, and the game’s been scared away, I have to scavenge to make a living. I, _erpp!_ ”

Dilanni quietens as Adis’s hand covers his mouth. His eyes widen as two Imperial army jungletroopers move slowly over the path. All three crouch down silently until they pass. The two remove their helmets as they approach the base’s outer gates.

Both are human females.

Adis narrows his eyes at Meglann’s expression. He sighs and closes his eyes.The young woman’s face mirrors that of Lassa or Ahsoka’s when they are planning something.

Something that usually involves a lot of running. Or exploding.

Labored breathing on his part, for any of the above.

* * *

Palpatine sits on his throne, his reptilian eyes hooded as the young woman, clad in a hood of her own walks smoothly into the dark chamber. She takes a deep breath, looking around at the impassive red-caped sentinels. She exhales, then raises her hood, revealing tan skin and burning gold-brown eyes. Eyes that have more than just a tint of bright red in them. Small horns sprout from the dark hair that flows over her shoulders and escapes the hood, revealing her Iridonian heritage.

After a pause, and a shift from one of the guards that had escorted her in; a shift that threatens her with application of at least one end of the minion’s force-pike, she slides to her knee and bows her head. After an even longer pause, Palpatine chuckles. “Rise, my servant,” he says.

For about the thousandth time, the young woman is struck by how careful the Emperor is to not use a certain word.

_Apprentice._

She had been reminded of her status when she had accidentally used the word while training. The prolonged agony of the combined Force-lightning and Force-choking had left an impression, if only a small amount of actual scars on her skin.

 _You are merely a tool, Nulla_ , he had said, while inflicting the pain. _A blunt instrument, rather than a fine one. Even the name I have given you indicates that you don’t exist. I only have one apprentice._

These words had echoed throughout her training, both with him and his cadre of Crimson Adepts. Its application had finally slowed, at least from the so-called Adepts when she had beaten six of them in a melee, a fight marked by her mastery of several of the martial arts they had taught her at once, all without resorting to the Force or the use of one of her single-bladed lightsabers.

The last mantra echoes in her head as she lifts her eyes to his.

Her mind’s eye falls on the bodies of her fellow Agri-Corps members, the last unit left after the cauldron of the Clone War had negated the need. She sees the remaining Corps members kneeling, their eyes imploring as she pays the price for her own salvation. Including one who had befriended her, taking her under her wing. Another couple who she had spent the nights escaping the drudgery in their arms. The scent of blasterfire ozone sends their faces from her memory.

Nulla sees her master’s dark blue eyes and ravensblack hair, just before leaving her to go off on a mission. A mission with the woman that Nulla had begged to take as her master. The tall, serene huntress, Shaak Ti. A huntress who had dashed her hopes, when she told her that the Force had called her to choose another.

Her master’s last mission, as it turned out.

She focuses on the Emperor, sitting impatiently waiting for her to listen.

“You will go to Felucia, my weapon. There you will fulfill your mission, of maintaining watch over my other servants. There is an Inquisitor-Novice there, on a mission for Lord Vader at my behest. I have my doubts about him. Ensure that he completes his mission. If not, kill him, and any who stand in your way.”

As she exits the throne room, her mind burns with two names. One a world, where her master had met her fate.

The other a name of her former life. A name that she had kept in her mind, even when Palpatine and his trainers had tried to cut it from her consciousness.

As she moves towards her ship, Maris Brood sees the sad violet eyes of Shaak Ti, as she had sealed her fate, refusing her as a padawan, in favor of another.

She sends her own name back to the recesses of her mind.

* * *

Meglann focuses on Adis’s face as she hears the machinery whir; the harbinger of another day lost, another life lost, and another day closer to Thyla Secura being the one losing everything. Adis holds her tightly against his broad chest as the pirate, the tiny Ugnaught breathes his last.

The two-trooper patrol had not been by again since the last prisoner had died. There had been no other way. They had realized that Adis would not fit through Dilanni’s route into the base. Adis had put his foot down at the thought of Meglann going in alone.

Meglann had blustered, but she was secretly relieved. Her resolve had tiny pickaxes chipping away at its stone; she wasn’t sure that she had the skill or experience to pull it off with only the Felucian at her side. A Felucian who swung from bouts of despair at his son’s captivity, to outright anger at them for their inability to act.

At least his son had not been brought out to take his place in line. Instead, he had been sighted in the company of a middle-aged human male, dressed in the white tunic of the ISB or Intelligence.

Adis slowly lets her up, but hastily puts space between them where he had been laying on top of her. She had nearly charged as the prisoner had been lifted to the overheads.

Only a human female and male remain before Secura dies. Meglann relaxes as she tries to see how they can get in; wrestling with the problem as she would’ve in her math classes with one of the interminable word problems she had faced at the University. She grits her teeth. _This isn’t an abstract problem, with x = y, if everything else is not equal._

She manages not to make a sound as a figure silently leaps from the trees above. She is less successful at not leaping into the figure’s arms, in a move that she had unconsciously copied from the figure in the tight embrace.

She feels Ahsoka’s grin against her neck as she rocks her back and forth in a tiny motion. Meglann hears a snort of something like derision from over Ahsoka’s shoulder. Meglann narrows her eyes at the origin.

Lassa Rhayme stands looking at them for a moment, then turns to Adis. Meglann hears the gunner quietly reporting on the situation. Lassa looks at her with something else, as he points to her; as Meglann’s plan is apparently discussed. She nods at Meglann with a slight upturn of her lips as she and Ahsoka release each other.

Ahsoka’s own smile makes her look down. “Not bad, ‘glann. Only it needs something other than a mudtrooper uniform.” She makes a gesture with both of her hands.

Two sets of white stormtrooper armor float into the tableau. Meglann starts as she realizes that the two objects are not just armor, but the owners of the armor. She sees them breathing, as if asleep.

One of them appears to be only a little larger than Meglann’s height, while the other—

She closes her eyes as Lassa blows her a kiss.


	7. Unfruitful withering?—Ah, the pitiless things I say...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Sergeant then speaks, his voice more tentative. “I don’t need a password,” he intones._
> 
>  
> 
> _Meglann concentrates on what Ahsoka is saying. “The three of you need to go off into the jungle. There’s something out there.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _All three of the troopers repeat her phrasing, word-for-word. They stand there, as if waiting for instructions. She can almost feel the Smirk against her shoulder. “You should go a full kilometer into the bush. When you get there, you should all take off your clothes and fall asleep in each other’s arms.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Meglann rolls her eyes as the troopers amble off. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t teach that in Jedi school,” she whispers through the helmet’s vocoder._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Yeah, well. A girl has to have a little fun while saving the galaxy,” Ahsoka says, her voice more clear now._

Dilanni’s heart beats faster as his eyes fall on the tall figure. He is unable to speak as he recognizes her from that long ago day. The day when he had gained his courage; when he had found his way in the world.

He opens his mouth, suddenly unable to speak—a condition that many who knew him would find rare. Including a mate who had listened to his chatter with amusement and tolerance, especially after that day.

Until she didn’t. 

He notices the Togruta’s eyes fall on him, as the overfed one with the headdress and tendrils points at him; those blue eyes boring through him with the look of someone trying to place another, but the person is just out of reach. He smiles to himself as he realizes that the blue orbs, while still powerful, no longer take up most of her face. Well not quite. 

Dilanni sees that even though she is a few years shy of a decade older, her eyes betray one who has lived through many horrors and losses. He still sees more than a glimpse of humor and wonder in her gaze, as well as compassion.

He stumbles as he moves towards her. His tongue finally decides to work. 

“My half-a-Jedi,” he says, an instant before he winces. 

He sees the remembered trademarked expression grow on her features, morphing into a warm smile. 

“Little bit more than half, Dilanni,” she says, her voice only a tad less high, but still as clear as he remembered it, as she helped the furry-faced one and the tall, scarred one instruct him and his fellow farmers. Her features grow serious. “Maybe a little less, at the same time.”

She pulls him into her arms, bending down and resting her forehead against his snout. 

Suddenly Dilanni sees himself in his mind, holding his malespawn tightly. Safe. Unharmed.

“I think all is right with the world, now,” he says. 

“I know. That’s what they tell me,” she finishes. He is not quite sure what she means, taking in the distant look that now fills those eyes.

“I’ll help, as long as you help me get Geordai back,” he finishes. Her eyebrow markings rise at the trace of defiance in his voice—a trace that surprises even him.

She allows her lips to quirk up again. “I’d be honored to help you bring your boy home,” she says. She turns to Adis. Dilanni realizes that the other two, the blue one and the young one have slipped off, along with the unconscious Imperials that the half— _no, call her by her name—Ahsoka_ had brought with her.

“I think we’ve got a plan to get in, Dilanni,” Ahsoka says. “We’ll need your hidden place as a way to get out.”

She turns as the young human and the Pantoran returns. Both are clad in the bodysuits of the Imperials, if not the full armor, yet. The youngest carries a large bottle that Dilanni instantly recognizes. 

_They’re going to drink spice-fire, now of all times?_

He relaxes as he sees Ahsoka’s face take on a rueful cast, then twist at the pungent smell emanating from the bottle. The Pantoran and the human both copy her trademarked expression. The overfed one rolls his eyes.

“Gotta smell the part, Quartermaster,” the Pantoran says. 

Ahsoka takes a deep breath and reaches out for the bottle. Before she can seize it, the young human, another one with laughter and kindness in her dark eyes, upends the bottle over the Jedi’s head.

The sputtering and cursing burns through the air. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Thyla Secura blinks at the filtered sun playing over her face from the hangar entrance. She takes a deep breath, lets it out in a sigh of relief. She can usually tell that it isn’t her day to die by the fact that her hands are bound in front of her, rather than behind her, in prescribed Imperial fashion for those about to be hanged. _Mustn’t create too much of a spectacle by being able to grab the noose,_ she thinks. _No more than the spectacle that a death by strangulation creates anyway_. 

As always, she is lead out the long way, her lekku yanked on to look at the five corpses in various stages of decomposition before her. She jerks her head out of the trooper’s grasp and stares defiantly at them all. Her face crumples slightly as she sees the body of the Ugnaught, only a day on the gibbet.

Getl, as he had told her he was named, had been held in the the cell next to her. He had kept her laughing over the last week, playing fool’s Sabacc with imaginary hands. The laughter had stopped on the day before it was his turn. She had tried to keep him laughing, but to no avail. She had made sure that she had kept her eyes locked on his, a smile on her face as the noose was placed over his head.

Her reverie stops as she is shoved into the line. The Imperial scumbag, of whom she hadn’t bothered retaining his name, faces them. She stares at his bloodshot eyes; the swaying stance. _Apparently this is harder than he thought it would be._

He turns his drunken gaze on the next victim, a human male. The human’s sister, almost identical to him stands next to him, her bound hands holding his, bound behind his back. Her eyes are filled with tears. Her brother is stoic, defiant, as his sister tightens her grip. 

Thyla sees something change in the Imperial’s eyes. A gleam comes to them. He motions two troopers over. They immediately seize the sister and hold her tightly. Another trooper unlocks her binders, then turns his attention to the brother as they pull her arms behind her back. 

Thyla’s teeth grind as she realizes what it happening. Two more troopers come over and together with the other two, march them over to the center of the hangar. The brother’s curses can be heard echoing through the hangar as he struggles with the guards. The sister has gone silent, her eyes wide with the realization of what will now happen. She reaches over and kisses her brother on the cheek, calming him. She whispers into his ear as the second noose is lowered from the overhead. 

“I’ve decided that I can’t keep a family separated,” he says with a sneer. He looks at Thyla, who is now being held back by two more guards, as she stands alone in the line. “I have something special planned for you, tomorrow, my dear,” he continues, as he motions. 

The machinery whirs, once again. This time, Thyla doesn’t look up. She stares at the Major with loathing. Her eye widens as another door opens. 

Ten stormtroopers march out, a huge figure clad only in its fur walks out. For the first time in awhile, Thyla smiles without malice or fear. 

A large Wookiee, her fur glowing almost silver in the weak sunlight, stares at her with green eyes. The eyes crinkle in recognition. Thyla sees the iron gray pelt is marked by the bare patches; of healing wounds. The Wookiee crows in triumph and welcome, making the ten hardened troopers jump. 

Both of them are led to their cells. They are surprised as the guards unbind them and shove them both into Thyla’s cell. The garrison commander’s words barely register with them. 

“It will be interesting to see two different species strangling on my cables tomorrow. Don’t worry, my dear,” he says in the Wookiee’s direction. “I have an extra strong bit of liqui-cable for you. You won’t pull the ceiling down when you’re hoisted.” He looks at Thyla. “Maybe she’ll save me the trouble and tear you apart tonight. She’s quite peevish.” He touches his cap mockingly. “See you in the morning. Unless you change your mind and find that my bed is a better option than that of a Wookiee.” He turns away, as the door closes behind him.

Thyla stares at the Wookiee, a slow smile growing over her face. “Hey, Biggo. Been awhile. You planning on tearing me apart?”

The equivalent of a grin flows to the Wookiee’s features. “+No, little shit. Like your Captain, you may not be worth the effort.+”

For the first time, Thyla’s resolve breaks. She remembers this Wookiee, a trained engineer, facing Lassa Rhayme in Jabba’s gladiator pits. Both had pounded each other, until Lassa was able to execute her ‘plan’ to escape, taking Ritaambiggo with them. She had offered the elder a place on the crew, to replace a useless engineer.

Ritaambiggo had been touched, but had ultimately refused. 

Tears flow freely from Thyla’s eye. “Well, I’m not with Lassa anymore, either. Kinda wished I’d stayed with her,” she says, before sobs take over.

She is engulfed in warm fur, as Biggo allows her to cry against her broad chest. “+At least we’ll both die with a friend beside us,+” Thyla is able to translate, the grunts taking on a crooning quality. 

Biggo sits on the floor, against the wall. She pulls Thyla to rest her back against her front. They are both soon lost in thought.

Counting the hours.

+=+=+=+=+=

Kento Mallie walks into the garrison commander’s office. For the life of him, the ISB agent cannot recall the officer’s name. He shakes his head, not caring a great deal that he can’t. He sees the open, wrinkled black tunic on the officer, usually the mark of a stormtrooper officer, or at least someone who had begun life as one. His eyes fall on a protein paste stain on the back of the flap. 

_Elite, indeed_ , he thinks to himself. 

The Major— _no, Senior Captain_ , as stormtroopers like to call the rank, trying to mimic the system of the clonetroopers—their forebears in Imperial service, opens his eyes at the intrusion. The bleary eyes fall on Kento’s uniform. His upper lip rises in a sneer at the replacement of the white headquarters tunic and black pants with the field-gray versions with the half-armor on the chest. The uniform of a working field agent of the ISB.

Kento hangs his helmet on its hook on his belt, opposite the blaster. He crosses his arms over his chest, waiting expectantly. 

“What do you want?” the Major asks in a sharp, if unsteady tone.

“Cooperation, Georg, old boy,” Kento replies, hoping he got at least one of the officer’s names right. 

The officer doesn’t seem to notice. He waves his hand dismissively. “Whatever you want to do, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the dances of those two pirates tomorrow.” He grins, a skull-like expression on his sallow face. “Or maybe today.”

Kento clinches his teeth, fighting to keep his lips from curling up in a rictus of anger. “The boy. The native that your troopers caught poaching. The one that they reported the apparition with. I want him.”

The officer is silent; at first Kento is unsure that he heard, or if he did, the words haven’t sunk in through the haze. 

“What do you want with a single barbarian?” Georg asks. A wicked smirk mars the already-ugly features. “Unless your tastes run that way.”

Kento manages not to rise; to not draw and place a bolt of superheated plasma in between those bloodshot eyes. “It’s really none of your fucking business,” he says quietly, but with just a hint of malice in the pitch.

The stormtrooper officer makes to say something, but thinks better of it. He raises his hand in a dismissive gesture, punching a couple of keys on his desk console.

Kento looks down at the young Felucian, his hands bound. He holds out his hand to the escort, who stares at him. After a moment, the fleet trooper hands the device over. Kento touches it to the boy’s binders, then hand both back.

“What’s your name?” he asks, in as kind of a voice as he can muster.

The boy says nothing. Kento feels a dark look come into his eyes, if just for a fleeting second.

“Geordai,” the boy says, only half-sullenly.

“Well, Geordai, my name is Agent Mallie. I think that we can help each other out. You can tell me about your adventures in the bush; I’ll feed you a good meal and see if we can find your family.”

As he and the boy walk out of the gate, Kento’s eyes narrow at two stormtroopers returning from a patrol. A tall hooded figure is dragged between them, muttering and stumbling.

As they move off, Kento oddly thinks that one of the troopers might be a bit shorter than most he’s seen. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann watches the young Felucian and his escort through the eyepieces of the stormtrooper helmet. She rubs her gloved hands on the faceplate again, in a futile attempt at trying to get a clearer view of the boy and the Imperial. Lassa had told her that it takes some time getting used to the Heads Up Display that analyzed everything that she saw. The pirate had taken the control gauntlet and had switched it to ‘visual only’, in an attempt to make it easier for her; to sort through the data overfeed.

Meglann grits her teeth as she is able to make out the half-armor and helmet of the Imperial, a unique combination in her limited experience. She takes a deep breath, wondering what Geordai’s exit from the prison means. She immediately regrets the breath as a remnant of the previous owner’s foul breath inundates her nostrils. She had managed to keep from puking when she had pulled the helmet on and the pungent scent of bak-root, a local flavoring spice, that appeared to be several days old when the stormtrooper had ingested it. The spice also had the olfactory resemblance to a bantha’s ass when it was fresh, much less when it was old. She shakes her head slightly, then moves her left hand to the gauntlet on the other hand, filled with the dead weight of supposedly drunken Togruta. She manages to tap out a one-handed text to Adis, waiting with Dilanni at the Felucian’s hidden entrance to the base. She grins behind the helmet. _Good thing my college experience of one-handed drunk texting prepared me for this moment_ , she thinks. 

She grows serious as her eyes fall on the three troopers at the gate. One bears a black paldron on his right shoulder. She searches her memory; of a quick glance through a holofile. _Sergeant, I think._

She opens her mouth, hoping that she can put enough officialness into her words to the NCO, with a bit of humility of a lower-rank. At the last second, she remembers to select the ‘closed comm’ transmission mode, so that only the troopers would hear her words through a burst of code.

“We have a drunk we found in the village. She was disturbing the peace,” she manages.

The Sergeant’s hidden eyes stare at her for a moment. “I don’t suppose she’s a pirate? Might make the S-Cap happy.” 

Meglann stares at him in confusion at the word. _Senior Captain_ , flashes on her display. _The pasty shit who seems to be getting his rocks off whenever he kills a prisoner._

Apparently Lassa has mastered the art of using her eye movements to text. Even without college.

“No,” she replies to the Sergeant. She hastily adds ‘Sergeant’ at the end.

“Oh, well. Guess we’ll get live target practice on this one.” He says this over the open speaker.

She feels a flare of anger from the ‘drunk’ that she is holding up. Anger that matches her own at the casual admission of murder as a fate for petty criminals. Once again, Meglann is convinced that she has made the right decision in joining this little band of do-gooders; encouraged by the example of the young woman between Lassa and her.

The Sergeant’s tone remains as bored and matter-of-fact as with the previous statement. “Okay. Give me the password of the day, and we’ll take her in, process her and then shoot her while she attempts escape. The cells are only for those waiting to be hanged.”

Meglann’s heart twists at his words, not just the threat of Ahsoka’s imminent demise as entertainment. She fumbles in her memory for anything that might suffice as a password. She sees the Sergeant and the other two troopers tense at the delay.

“Well?” he asks, his voice growing harder.

She feels a shift in Ahsoka’s body. Unsurprisingly, it is not a tensing of those muscles. 

A relaxation. As if centering herself. 

Meglann tenses her own body, but only feels Ahsoka slump even more. She hears muttering from her ‘prisoner.’ Ahsoka’s right hand rises in the binders, making a strange gesture with her fingers. 

For what feels like a millennia, there is silence. 

The Sergeant thens speaks, his voice more tentative. “I don’t need a password,” he intones. 

Meglann concentrates on what Ahsoka is saying. “The three of you need to go off into the jungle. There’s something out there.”

All three of the troopers repeat her phrasing, word-for-word. They stand there, as if waiting for instructions. She can almost feel the Smirk against her shoulder. “You should go a full kilometer into the bush. When you get there, you should all take off your clothes and fall asleep in each other’s arms.”

Meglann rolls her eyes as the troopers amble off. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t teach that in Jedi school,” she whispers through the helmet’s vocoder.

“Yeah, well. A girl has to have a little fun while saving the galaxy,” Ahsoka says, her voice more clear now.

They both hear a snort from the trooper on the right. Lassa stares at Ahsoka and Meglann, her eyepieces unreadable. 

“That Jedi hoodoo always makes me kinda horny,” she says. 

“Always knew you had a thing for the robes, Rhayme,” Ahsoka says. 

“Never seen any. All my Jedi seemed to be wearing a lot less.”

Ahsoka checks her chronometer as Meglann removes her binders. She rubs her wrists and smiles at her. “Thanks, babe,” she says. 

“Next time I get the helmet without a side of body odor,” Meglann says. 

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Ahsoka says. “At least someone didn’t pour that nerf-piss all over you and make you drink it.”

“Could you two stop with the grab-ass and get a move on?” Lassa asks impatiently. “We need to get in and out.”

Ahsoka looks at Meglann. Both women giggle. “In and out,” the slightly older adolescent says. “Sounds like the Captain has it bad. Maybe you can find a closet and take care of her needs,” she says.

“Yeah, it might only take about ten seconds,” Meglann retorts without a beat.

“You couldn’t handle me, little girl,” Lassa says. 

Ahsoka pulls them both close, looks at them fondly. “You two idiots be careful.”

Lassa pulls her forehead to her helmet. “You too, twit. You can take a rain check on my awesomeness. Maybe we can teach the kitten here a thing or two.”

Ahsoka turns and is gone. Both would-be troopers stare at each other for a moment. 

Lassa jerks her head. “Come on, Ensign. Let’s find Adis and secure our escape route.”

As they turn to go, an earsplitting bellow cuts through the day. Meglann stares at Lassa. “That’s the execution horn. Calling the villagers here. It wasn’t supposed to happen ‘til tomorrow.”

“Guess he got really bored. Come on,” Lassa says, “change of plans. Let’s get to the hangar. May have to sow some chaos there.”

Meglann feels the stab of fear and anticipation in her chest as she always does. As she follows Lassa, she does what Ahsoka had told her to do when she feels these twin emotions.

She wraps them into a little ball and suppresses them, until the job is done.


	8. What do you ask your God for, at the end of day,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ahsoka slides to a stop at a large junction of four corridors. There, blocking the precise passageway to her objective, stands a tall figure. The figure is clad in black, with a cloth-and-mechanical mask combination over the lower half of his face. His brown hair is cropped short—almost shorn, but not quite. She can tell that the figure is human or near-human and male, but beyond that, she can’t see much more than his dark eyes, burning with a tiny hint of red and yellow. Eyes with hues that she has seen before. Her eyes track down over his uniform. She notes the Imperial cogs on each side of his chest, a sinister bastardization of the Republic cog, from before. She allows her memory to flow back, over four years ago, on a dying farming moon. The gray creature clad in similar fashion, who had taunted her as she faced him unarmed._
> 
>  
> 
> _No, she hadn’t been unarmed, she thinks. She had, as always, the Force._

Shyla Merricope slowly opens her eyes, allowing them to adjust to the dark of the unfamiliar room, the slight glow of the Federal District’s skyline. She smiles to herself, remembering how she had come to be here. 

She wonders if the holo-paparazzi had gotten their money’s worth of the newly installed Senator of Zeltros, the Covenant of Corellia, and the ex-Diktat of Corellia walking away arm-in-arm to find a bed. Her face grows serious as she thinks of the raw exhaustion seeming to come over Bryne as they had reached the door. Both she and Kanyly had managed to get him to the bed and his boots off before he had collapsed. Her smile returns as she remembers his whispered ‘sorry’, to them both as he fell asleep; it widens as she remembers Kanyly’s soft look at him, as well. 

An instant before she had pulled Shyla over to the couch, to ‘pass the time’, as she called it. She shakes her head as she licks her lips, the tastes bringing memories of the light and the power of Kanyly’s resonance. A power that most assuredly had distracted any holo-rats or Imperial observers, most probably to the point that they had gone off to find the most convenient alcove or room to take care of any unfinished carnal business brought on by their subjects’ activities. As soon as her security detail had told her that no observers lingered, Kanyly had pulled up her gown, given her a final, lingering kiss, and had left the room. The Senator had kissed Bryne on his forehead, just before leaving. 

He had not stirred; his sleep deep—so deep that she had felt the worry rolling off of Kanyly, as well as reflecting from Shyla, through the empathic gift. Shyla reaches over to the side of the bed. Her hand falls on linen; linen without Covenant lying supine. Her eyes move over to the window. 

Bryne Covenant sits at the small table, looking out over the busy skyline. Shyla gets up and walks over to him silently. She sees him smile slightly just before she reaches him. Her eyes widen as she realizes that he is wrapped in a blanket, in addition to his clothing from the night before. She looks down at her nude body, her brows crinkling. She is usually a bit cold-natured, but she feels only a tiny bit of cool air on her skin.

He is shivering. She pulls him to her body, his head resting under her lips. 

“What’s wrong, Bryne?” she asks, knowing what his response would be. 

“Nothing,” he says simply. He doesn’t disappoint her. 

She shoves him in the chair. “Don’t tell me ‘nothing’, bud,” she says. “You normally would’ve been all over Kanyly and I—all for ‘distracting’ the reporters and ISB clowns in the hallway. You fell asleep without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’ when the two of us were practically undressing you as soon as we hit the room.”

“I was tired,” comes the answer. He reaches up and kisses her. “Sorry you missed out,” he says, with a hint of his usual sarcasm. 

Only a tiny hint. She pulls herself into the blanket with him. She sees that he stops shivering a bit. She starts to move her hands into the opening of the shirt, rubbing his skin. 

“You’ve looked like stepped-in shit, since we left Zeltros. I’m not going to accept ‘nothing’ from you when I ask you, your Eminence. One, I know that Dani would never let you get away with this poodoo; she would make you tell her, then set about trying to make it better.” She looks down. “Just like she did with me,” she whispers. 

Bryne stares into her eyes. After a moment of the ocular pissing match, he looks away. “You’re implying that there is more than one item on this list of Bryne Covenant’s shortcomings?” he asks. 

She moves her hand to his cheek, rubbing it on the skin there. “Two, I know for a fact that you stayed up and helped Lyndia heal me when I was in that morass of recovering from the addiction.” She is proud of herself for admitting what she had done, rather than using soft euphemisms. “I sensed you in all of that Zeltron healing hoodoo, while I was under.

“Let me help you, Bryne,” she finishes. “Dani told me that she knows some of it, that you somehow get so cold at night, even when you’re sleeping next to her warmth. For almost a year or so, now.”

After another moment of silence, coupled with a searching look at her, he nods. “I haven’t been sleeping. I’ve been having dreams about my past. Dreams of a trip to Felucia, when I was much younger—not much older than your daughter.”

She feels her eyes flash at his mention. He holds his hand up. “It’s okay, Shyla,” he says. “I know you probably know certain things about me, just as I know certain things about you.”

She nods. “Okay.” Her eyes lock with his. “I know about that someone I’m not supposed to know about. Someone who you and Dani both hold to your hearts so deeply. I somehow sensed her in the healing resonance, as well. Does this have anything to do with her?”

He burrows his head deeper into her arms. “To a certain extent. From our shared lives before all of this.”

She pulls him in tighter, not giving voice or thought to what that shared heritage might mean. They rest there for several moments. She pulls him up. “Come on. Let’s get into bed. I’ll see if I can keep you warm.”

He rises with her. She makes to move to the bed, then realizes that he is no longer in her arms. Her heart twists as she sees that he is on the floor, lying awkwardly on his back. His body is rigid.

She moves towards him, her moving to his chest. She can feel the heart still beating strongly; she can see the rise and fall of his chest. 

His eyes—those green eyes that are one of the first thing anyone notices about him— are open and staring, unblinking. As if he is staring into the face of some long ago trial. 

She rises and moves over to the nightstand. She grabs a robe from the bed and lifts her comm.

As she calls for help, a part of her mind wonders if this rising panic is what Dani felt, when she had found Shyla on the floor and unresponsive.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka stares at the empty cells, her stomach tightening with the fear that she is too late. A half-second later, she hears the stentorian bellow of the alarm, summoning all to witness the Emperor’s justice. She closes her eyes, recalling her flashing memory of the layout. She turns and heads down the passageway towards the hangar. 

She slides to a stop at a large junction of four corridors. There, blocking the precise passageway to her objective, stands a tall figure. The figure is clad in black, with a cloth-and-mechanical mask combination over the lower half of his face. His brown hair is cropped short—almost shorn, but not quite. She can tell that the figure is human or near-human and male, but beyond that, she can’t see much more than his dark eyes, burning with a tiny hint of red and yellow. Eyes with hues that she has seen before. Her eyes track down over his uniform. She notes the Imperial cogs on each side of his chest, a sinister bastardization of the Republic cog, from before. She allows her memory to flow back, over four years ago, on a dying farming moon. The gray creature clad in similar fashion, who had taunted her as she faced him unarmed. 

_No, she hadn’t been unarmed_ , she thinks. _She had, as always, the Force._

Her hands close on her lightsabers. She doesn’t bother with the blasters hanging under her arms. She brings the hilts to her face, allowing them to come together before igniting the white blades, pulling them apart, into the reverse grip for one hand. 

She sees the crimson blade grow from her opponent’s right hand. Ahsoka notes that he only uses one of the blades on his unique circular hilted weapon. Her eyebrow markings rise slightly as she notices that he holds the blade in a grip that mirrors hers. 

She smiles slightly at the memory of Taliesin Croft patiently teaching her the grip; after she had pestered him for his knowledge, knowing that many disdained the variation on Form V. Many that would later include her own master, Anakin Skywalker. She shakes the thought of Croft from her mind, focusing on the coming duel. 

_Focus on the here and now, Snips_ , she hears in stereo in her mind. Although one of the voices uses a different nickname for her. Her mind’s eye flashes to the face of that particular voice’s owner above her adult self, the warm, crooked grin still present, in spite of the concentration on his face at the act. She grits her teeth, then calms. She reaches out to the Force, allowing it to play over the Inquisitor. 

She draws a breath in tightly. Where the previous version of this opponent had been suffused with the dark side, had felt dead and dark to her inquiries, this one projected something else—in addition to the darkness. 

_Confusion? A path still uncertain?_

She begins to circle around to his left flank, one lightsaber moving in a casual twirl. She also can feel that this Inquisitor is much more powerful in the Force than her previous opponent. 

Ahsoka paints a smile on her face. “I don’t suppose you would consider moving out of my way, so I can get my friend out of a predicament she’s gotten herself in, would you?” she asks. 

She senses one corner of his mouth, under the mask, quirking upwards. “No. Don’t think I can do that, Jedi,” he says in an almost warm voice. A voice still marked with that grating patented ‘villain’ tone, through the humor. “Unless you want to put down your sabers and go stand next to your friend and let that sorry excuse for an Imperial officer tighten a noose around your neck.”

“Sorry, sweetie,” she says. “Had a noose around my neck a few weeks ago. Didn’t like the experience too much.”

Again, she senses something like humor through the darkness. “Too bad. Some people say that a little closed windpipe heightens the experience,” he says. 

She feels her eyes widen. _Did he just flirt with me? In some twisted way?_

She shakes her head. _I thought only Ventress bantered. Didn’t think these half-assed versions had a sense of humor_. Just for a moment, she allows herself to mourn her dead, the dead of her friends. She mourns what Ventress had become, at the end, according to what she had heard. 

_To the light, restored._

“You seem to have a bit of trouble focusing on me, ‘sweetie’,” the Inquisitor says. “Perhaps I need to turn up the charm.”

At that moment, she feels the darkness close around her. She centers herself, allowing her own Force-sense to shove the tiny bit of fear away from her. She smiles. “You might be handsome, sport, but I have places to be. A warmer bed to get back to in a few days. So why don’t you just get out of my way, let me rescue my friend, and as a favor, I might rid the universe of that bad Imperial officer,” she says. “As well as letting you get back to your choking.”

She moves towards him, her blades moving to the attack position. He doesn’t ignite his second blade. 

“Sorry, dear,” he says. “If you would just come over here and let me drop your head onto the floor, I might be able to get back to more pleasurable pursuits of my own.”

In a lightning-fast move, he lunges towards her, bringing the crimson blade around in its reverse arc towards her throat. She is able to parry with ease, but takes an involuntary step back at the power of the blow. Ahsoka follows up with a double-bladed strike at his head, from the overhand, while following up with a parry of his next blow, then a swing with one hand and a thrust with the other.

She stumbles back as he ignites his second blade. The flash of the ignition overpowers her vision, as he flips the saber around and nearly slices her eyes. She feels the heat of the tip as it crosses into her eyesight, before starting its spinning arc, as the two sabers are joined as one. 

She shoves him back with the Force, as she shakes her head, trying to clear it of the light-bursts. 

A Pantoran voice in the earpiece on the underside of her lekku, cuts through her consciousness. “Change of plans. About to be in the hangar. Could use a little help.”

 _Good to know_ , a part of her mind says. She begins to attack the Inquisitor again, to move him where she wants him. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Vader remains kneeling before his master, awaiting permission to rise. The man that he had once been would’ve fidgeted, maybe even risen defiantly.

Vader had grown well above that weakness—that arrogance. He stifles thoughts of his past, as he always does. He twists slightly in his suit, without giving any appearance of moving to anyone observing. He allows the pain of the needles in his ruined flesh to bring him back to the present. Needles that bind him to the armor—armor that gives him some semblance of life. 

There is some small hope that something will go wrong in his pain and it will end. The thought passes quickly. 

“The disturbance in the Force has grown, my apprentice,” Palpatine says in his wheezing voice—a timbre that he occasionally allows to creep over his words. Usually not when speaking to him. Vader regains his focus at an impatient chuff. 

“The tendrils of the Dark Side give the appearance of unraveling. The disturbance is becoming more focused, as if it is becoming more awake. Felucia is its epicenter.”

As he had since the Emperor had given him the assignment, he wonders if he is being gamed, again. Tested. He had felt nothing of this unraveling in his own Force-sense. He waits patiently. 

“What have you heard from your agent, Lord Vader?” Palpatine asks, his eyes locking on Vader expectantly. 

“Nothing, as yet, my master,” he replies. “But that is not unusual. The Novice has been trained to work independently. He has always gotten results in the past, in the short time he has been active.”

Palpatine watches him, “Rise, Lord Vader,” he finally says. The Emperor stands. “Walk with me.”

Vader takes station behind and to the left as Sidious walk from the chamber. Vader realizes they are moving towards one fo the balconies that looks out over the city-planet. A balcony that had not been used since the former residents of the Temple had been wiped out. 

“I know that you do not sense this particular disturbance, my apprentice. You will have to have faith that it is there. I think that it is calling to me. If it is what I suspect it might be, it’s better that weaker servants confront it.”

“I will do thy bidding, my master,” Vader says. “I will go or stay, depending upon your will.”

Palpatine gives his skull-like smile. “I know. But we need more information. Have the Grand Inquisitor reach out to his Novice.” Vader notices the carefully chosen words. “It might be that the young one is sensing more of this, as he is in the middle of it. Or,” he pauses, his yellow eyes staring balefully at Vader, “he has been subsumed by it. In which case, you will go to Felucia and end him.”

Vader remains calm; does not rise to the implied tone of threat in the Emperor’s words. Instead, he bows, his mind closing off to possibilities. “I follow thy will, my Master,” he says, unconsciously emphasizing the last word. 

He turns, his thoughts on possible futures. A future built into; almost expected in the Rule of Two, brought forth by Darth Bane, so long ago.

 _The apprentice will supplant the master._

He buries those thoughts, deep in his mind. Oddly, he buries them next to other thoughts of his past—memories of those long dead. 

He sees a bright, open face, a capital Smirk morphing into a warm smile as she listens, in a past life. He allows the needles to shift in his flesh again, dispelling that face. He only sees another vision of that face. One surrounded by white-clad figures, as she lies on the ground, her body pierced by energy bolts.

Those impossibly large eyes growing dim. 

He increases his stride. His mind dispels the vision, as well as that of a sensation of a severed training bond, a sensation of the threads flapping in the breeze.

He has no time for Skywalker’s dead.

+=+=+=+=+=

Novice #13 just manages to parry the double-bladed strike of the tall, hooded figure. Some part of his mind tries to analyze the figure that is swinging, thrusting, and parrying with graceful ease. He is able to tell that his opponent is female. His eyes lock on the montrals sticking up from the hood, the tips of lekku at the bottom of the disguise. He is no expert on Togruta, so he can’t tell her age. Her facial features are completely hidden, except for a pair of vivid blue eyes. 

The species strikes the chord of a distant memory, a half-remembered aside from his childhood, on one of _that woman’s_ rare visits, of someone she had known in her other life. Another Togruta female. The memory of the story had been nagging at him since he had listened to the stories being thrown about in the local watering hole. 

He wonders if he is living one of these stories at this moment. He shakes his head of the errant thought, with its companion taste of superstition. The dispelling of his thought comes just as he pulls his body to the right, sidestepping a thrust to his chest, while simultaneously parrying a slice at his head. 

Thirteen opens his shields a tiny bit, reaching out to the opponent. He senses, through a tiny opening in her own, an intensely bright light, overlaid with more than a tiny bit of snark. A slight wave of grief and pain follows on the tail of the sensation. Of course. She has lost everything. A tiny burst—not even a spark—of regret is shoved from his mind, at having to kill her. 

As she makes to swing one of her sabers, he moves under the anticipated swing and manages to thrust towards her side. He feels a twist in his senses, a blip of some sort—a blurring of the lines of her body. He hears a slight cry, but stops his victory crow as he realizes that the thrust that should have impaled her lungs has somehow slipped down, only scoring a slight cut along her hip, or at least in the area. 

He realizes that she has maneuvered him to the railing over the hangar. He can see the preening Imperial officer in front of his troops. Two figures, one giant, one smaller, stand with the nooses above their heads. His opponent glances back as well, then manages to circle around, moving her back to the railing. 

“Sorry, sweetie,” she says. “Gotta run. Won’t say it’s been fun, but maybe another dance sometime.”

Her shape blurs again. He fights the urge to rub his eyes, as a powerful wave of the Force moves over him. He realizes with this wave that he might be outclassed, starts to push back with his own abilities. Her white sabers arc down. He hears the shriek of distressed metal, feels the sparks on his face and chest as she, as part of the multiple swings, slices through his conjoined sabers. 

Another arc, and he manages to move his head only a few centimeters, helping to keep it on his shoulders. 

His body lights up with intense pain, as he realizes that her left saber has grown out of his right shoulder. She pulls the saber up, through skin and muscle. Both sabers point upward as she flips backward over the rail and is gone from his vision. 

As he slumps to his knees, his eyes taking in the remains of his sabers, the building starts to quake with intense vibration.

He locks onto something in his Force-sense. Something distant, but growing more distinct with each passing second.

Closer. 

Ignoring the scene in the hangar below, Thirteen scoops up his sabers and turns away. 

Towards the _something._


	9. Kneeling beside your bed with bowed and hopeless head?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The shiny, Florlin, is the first to reach them. With a roar, Biggo rises to her full height. She draws back her left arm and pistons it forward. Her fist makes contact with Junior’s chest, sending her flying across the hangar. In spite of herself, Lassa grins for an instant as the college girl lands and then slides another three meters or so on the nonskid. Her grin fades as Biggo turns towards her._
> 
>  
> 
> _She hastily removes her helmet as Thyla turns and pushes against the Wookiee. “Hold up, Bigs,” she says in her accented voice. “You know her.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _The rage falls from Biggo’s face. A couple of bent whiskers on the right side of her face twitch, an instant before her lips curl back from her teeth in a grin._
> 
>  
> 
> _“+You took your damn sweet time, little turd,+” she says._

Meglann charges through the corridors linking the side gate they had doubled back through to the hangar. She and Lassa had been forced to go around to another gate because of the assembled troops at the hangar doors, as well as the forcibly-gathered Felucians at the unguarded gates they had entered. 

She feels herself yanked back by a firm hand on her shoulder. “Careful, hard-charger,” she hears in her earpiece. She follows Lassa’s quick gesture. Her eyes widen behind the helmet as she sees a group of ten troopers marching down the corridor that crosses theirs. She grits her teeth as she sees Thyla and a large female Wookiee in the center of the troops. No, she realizes. The Wookiee has her own squad, all with their weapons pointed at her. 

“Come on,” she says, desperation creeping in her voice. “They’re going to kill her.” She starts to move forward, her grip tightening on the Imperial blaster. She is stopped by a gloved hand on the cheek of her helmet. 

“Hold up, sweetie,” she hears, again on the closed loop of the comms. “You’re no good to them if you’re slaughtered when you go off half-cocked,” Lassa finishes. “Let’s join the gaggle of stormies.” After a half-moment, Meglann nods, surprised at the tenderness in Lassa’s voice. 

They both start as a large figure moves into their vision from the opposite corridor. Adis stops, looks both ways and crosses the corridor junction. “Figured the horn meant a change in plans. Left Dilanni to watch our escape routes,” he says. 

“Might be a bigger change for him,” Meglann says. “I think an Imperial took his boy back to the village.”

Adis nods. “Okay. What’s the plan, Captain?” he asks Lassa.

“We were about to blend in with the other troopers. See if we can figure out how we can get get Thyla out of this before they kill her. Oh, by the way, Ritaambiggo seems to have found herself in the same predicament.”

Meglann’s eyes widen. “You know her?”

“Yep. We go way back. She tried to kill me once in an arena.”

“With your personality, I can’t imagine why,” Meglann says dryly.

“Stifle it, Junior. You got a better idea? You were all set to go in guns blazing.”

Meglann sees Adis’s eyes roll. “Could you two put a sock in it for five minutes? Might be good to have some muscle, rather than just mouth,” he says. 

“Yeah, some extra bulk that’s not centered in the bread-basket might be good,” Meglann says. Lassa looks at her and nods, almost approvingly.

“I can tell you’ve apprenticed to our Quartermaster. Great. Another one busting my balls about my weight.” Adis turns away. “I’m gonna try and blend in with the crowds outside; we might need another angle.”

“You be careful, big guy,” Meglann says. She hears a Pantoran accent speak the exact same words at the exact same time. 

“Wow, all this caring is about to bring a tear to my eyes,” he says. “You two can agree on something.”

“Get out of here, Guns,” Lassa says. They turn away.

Meglann takes a deep breath as the two of them fall into step down their own path. They are soon standing at the end of a line of like-armored Imperials. 

The officer in charge seems to be ending his harangue to the villagers about the joys of obeying the Empire. Meglann’s heart stops as she that the cables are already around the necks of Thyla and Ritaambiggo. She shoves the memory away; the vision of her own experience standing where the two of them now stand, alongside Ahsoka and Bryne on a windswept dock on her father’s world. 

She looks at Lassa. She can feel her desperation growing, even as it is more controlled than her own. Lassa makes a move towards Meglann’ utility belt. She realizes that where there had been three objects, there are now only two. She grabs the other object and mirrors Lassa’s movements; movements that she was already familiar with from her own self-rescue from an Imperial Star Destroyer. She sees a similar object arc from the crowd and fall amongst the ranks of fleet troopers. 

She and Lassa don’t throw their grenades. They drop them into the ranks of stormtroopers surrounding them.

They charge towards the little circle that is the center of the attention, just as they hear the Imperial say, “Carry out the Emperor’s justice.”

Meglann steels herself for multiple blaster bolts between her shoulder blades. Instead, she hears metal-shod feet scrambling to get to cover. She opens her mouth, knowing that even with the helmet, she’ll need to do something to keep from blowing her eardrums out. 

Time stops as she feels the overpressure strike her. She manages to maintain her feet, grabbing Lassa as the Captain stumbles. The roar of the sound wave strikes next. A part of her hears the metallic pinging of shrapnel striking her armor. 

For the most part, as some pieces send sharp bursts of fire where the armor doesn’t protect. She follows Lassa’s lead and drops to her knees, opening fire with the E-11 at the other troopers—the ones not lying in heaps from Adis’s grenade. 

In the chaos, she glances at the two figures they had come for. “They’re hanging them,” she screams at Lassa. The cables shorten as a switch is thrown. She watches helplessly as Thyla’s and Ritaambiggo’s toes scrabble to maintain purchase on the floor, as the mechanism whirs. For a half second, she wonders if she would be able to sever the cable with blaster shots, as her great-aunt Yosta Aspeff had done with the pistol she had gifted to her. 

Meglann manages to turn her concentration back to the blasterfire coming towards them. She and Lassa rise and begin to move forward, even though they are still outnumbered. She sees the officer that had started this whole thing, running for cover, his gait unsteady. 

A tall figure leaps down into the periphery of her vision, through the chaos. A grin spreads over Meglann’s face under the helmet, as she sees Ahsoka leap and land on the head of one of the few remaining upright stormtroopers and spring upwards, igniting her sabers at the apex of the rebound. 

The white blades slice easily through both cables, dropping the condemned to the ground, after an ascension of only a few feet. Meglann can feel the eyeroll from Lassa as Ahsoka flips in the air and points her toes straight downward. She sheathes her blades, dropping them to her belt with a mystical power, as her hands remain outstretched, just before she lands and rolls.

She rises to her feet effortlessly next to them as the remaining troopers are all lifted by an unseen hand and smashed against the far wall. A very large, unseen hand.

All fifteen or so of them sink to the deck. 

Ahsoka turns to them, not even out of breath. She looks at them, unable to resist a Smirk.

“Fucking showoff,” Lassa says. “Still might have to wear Junior here out a bit tonight, after all that display.”

“Doubt you could handle me, old woman,” Meglann retorts, once again. She sees Ahsoka smile at the byplay—the smile of one who knows she has instigated the snark.

The three of them turn towards the former prisoners. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Kento Mallie runs towards the small civilian landing field, where he had parked his Imperial-issue shuttle, rather than at the Imperial field. The ground has begun to shake in earnest now. The Felucians seem to be split between those running about aimlessly, and those who seem to be walking listlessly, just managing to avoid the falling trees and parts of buildings flying about. 

Kento stops and stares at the large barn that is the centerpiece of the village. He realizes that it has shifted on it axis; it continues to sway. He hears murmurs from the half of the villagers that are wandering listlessly.

_The jungle demon is coming._

He shakes his head, manages to grab the Felucian boy by the scruff of his neck as he tries to escape. He wonders if this might be a fruitless effort, trying to depend on the memory and woods-skills of an adolescent. 

The feeling that had plagued him since coming here, since the pirate depredations and its subsequent heavy-handed response by the garrison commander had given him an excuse to, tickles his neck. He looks up, his eyes falling on the main street of the village.

A tall, hooded figure walks towards him. He immediately gives into a primal superstition and looks at the top of the hood, for any high, dual projections. He finds none, bringing a sigh of relief and a wry grin. 

He feels his heartrate increase as he recognizes the walk—the movement of the figure. He wonders how it has been possible, that a figure from the past, one dressed in very recognizable earth-toned robes, has managed to survive the scrutiny of the Empire. A new order that has been hunting down Jedi since its inception. 

The figure walks up to him and stops. His respiratory rate joins that of his pulse, as she raises her hands to the hood, pulling it gently down. Her dark blue, almost black eyes stare into his. Her face is careworn, but still the same that had managed to captivate him those years ago on Corellia. Before she had left to travel to Kashyyyk, to assist the Wookiees with yet another spate of Trandoshan marauders. 

“Hello, Kento,” she says quietly. “It’s been awhile.”

He tries to find his voice, fails at first. “I know. I’ve missed you,” he finally says.

She nods, not replying. He looks down under that intense gaze. He sets his jaw. “I’ve missed you since you ran away. Since you managed to hide the fact that you had apparently borne my son.”

She shakes her head, then reaches up and touches his lips, a favorite gesture of hers from before. “That’s in the past. We’re together. That’s all that matters.”

“Might be all three of us together, if what I suspect is true at the base,” he says. 

He follows her eyes down to Geordai, the Felucian boy. He looks up at Kento, strangely, but doesn’t make eye contact with Lorhena Marek.

“Let the boy go, Kento,” she says. “I’m going to take you and show you a pathway to unimaginable power.”

She takes his hand in his, leads him away. 

Behind them, Geordai watches the Imperial leave. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Lassa and her rescue team move over to Thyla and Biggo, both of who sit on the ground, struggling against the binders. Lassa grins as Biggo’s muscles strain with the effort, an instant before the binders on her wrists snap from the strain. 

The shiny, Florlin, is the first to reach them. With a roar, Biggo rises to her full height. She draws back her left arm and pistons it forward. Her fist makes contact with Junior’s chest, sending her flying across the hangar. In spite of herself, Lassa grins for an instant as the college girl lands and then slides another three meters or so on the nonskid. Her grin fades as Biggo turns towards her. 

She hastily removes her helmet as Thyla turns and pushes against the Wookiee. “Hold up, Bigs,” she says in her accented voice. “You know her.”

The rage falls from Biggo’s face. A couple of bent whiskers on the right side of her face twitch, an instant before her lips curl back from her teeth in a grin. 

“+You took your damn sweet time, little turd,+” she says. 

“Would you like me to go back and leave your hairy ass here to argue with the rope and winch?” Lassa asks. She notices that Ahsoka is over with her junior Galaxy Scout. The young woman seems to be breathing, if sitting on the deck a bit dazed. Lassa turns her attention to Thyla, as Adis manages to remove her binders. 

Her once and future navigator rubs her wrists, staring at Lassa, unable to speak. Lassa walks over to her. She looks down, raises her arms to pull Thyla into an embrace, then drops them. She feels her eyes sting, as they fall on the abrasion that circles Thyla’s neck. She raises her gloved hands and touches the wound. She feels the lekku twitch on the backs of her fingers. “I thought I’d lost you, Thy,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Don’t know if I could take another loss.”

She feels Ahsoka walk up to them, Meglann walking with her, albeit a bit slowly, rubbing her chest.

Thyla smiles as she pulls Lassa’s forehead to hers. “Don’t get too sentimental on me, Rhayme. It doesn’t become you.” Lassa spies the tears starting to spill from her single eye, belying the snark. 

“So do you want your old job back or not, twit?” she asks, allowing a tiny bit of the usual acerbic tone into her voice. 

Thyla pushes off from Lassa. She brings the thumb and forefinger of her right hand to her chin in the classic thinker’s pose. “Hmm. Let me think,” she says.

Lassa shoves her back against Biggo’s chest. “Asshole,” she says. She looks at both of them. “I suppose that you’ll be a package deal.”

“Yep. She comes with me.”

Lassa feels her heart flip with something approximating joy, for the first time in months. “I do need a decent engineer, desperately. Need to bring Adis back to being just a half-way decent gunner and a shitty cook, without the added burden of being a shitty engineer.”

“You might consider someone else as your cook,” Ahsoka says, pointing to Florlin. 

Lassa’s eyes fall on the young woman, who removes her helmet, staring back at her defiantly. “Is she any good?” she asks. 

“Better than Croft,” Ahsoka says, using a long-dead name. “Plus she doesn’t pick her nose while cooking like he did.” She grins and points to the Wookiee. “Guess you’ll need an even bigger bathtub for staff meetings with this one, and Adis.”

Biggo grunts before Adis can reply with a certain gesture. “+Nope. All you bareskins are fragile. I’ll drink with the gunner and read the minutes.+” She suddenly scoops a blaster up and sends a bolt towards a parked troop transport.

Straight into the chest of a stormtrooper, pointing his blaster at Lassa. 

“+Guess we’re back to only one Life Debt.+”

Lassa smiles and pulls close to her, resting her body against Biggo’s chest. “Glad I didn’t let you be a rancor-snack back on Tatooine, sweetie,” she says. 

“Much as I’m loving all this huggy togetherness, we might want to see if your crew has managed to bring that junkheap into atmo to the LZ,” Ahsoka says. 

Lassa decides in the interest of time to let the ‘junkheap’ comment slide.

As they begin to move out, Lassa hears Ritaambiggo say to Junior, “+Sorry little girl, about the punch. No hard feelings?+”

“Yeah. I’ll try to refrain from poisoning your food, while my sternum knits back together,” Meglann replies, as she looks at the translator screen on her wrist.

In spite of herself, Lassa thinks that Meglann might just fit in. She remembers the months of Croft’s tenure as cook. The snark, the laughter, as well as more nocturnal pursuits.

She smiles to herself. _A pirate’s life for me._

+=+=+=+=+=

The garrison commander stares up at the old CR-90 climbing into the afternoon sky. His shoulders slump as he eyes the sable shape with a narrow scarlet band circling its length. He looks back to the slight smoke plume from his base, sees himself exiled to this steaming, flowery pit for eternity. 

His eyes snap up as the other two troop transports, idling in front of the one that he stands on top of, open fire with their turrets. 

“No!” he screams. “They’ve got—”

He watches the green and red turbolaser beams float almost lazily from the corvette. He grits his teeth and leaps from the top of the transport. 

He lifts his face from the ground from where it had planted. He manages to stand against the pain of the large, white-hot fragment sticking out of his back. He curses as he stares at the flaming ruin of the three transports.

“They’ve got bigger guns than we do,” he whispers to the remnants of his command. 

Several speederbikes move into his view. The lead scout trooper walks up to him and salutes. “Orders, sir?” the trooper asks. 

“Go back to the village and the base. Round up any troops you can find. Go into the village and slaughter the inhabitants.”

“But, sir,” the trooper protests. “The nysill—”

“What nysillin, Corporal? I’m pretty sure that the pirates destroyed it all.”

As the troopers depart, he turns back to contemplate the flames. He thinks of his brother. Commander of a stormtrooper legion sent to pacify a world showing rebellious tendencies. 

He and his entire battalion had disappeared, never to be heard from again. He closes his eyes. They had disappeared from a supposedly peaceful and joyous world. Imperial command had never answered his questions about Zeltros. 

Lic Tonca hears another speederbike spin down behind him. He allows his anger to grow through the haze of liquor and regret. He turns, about to discipline the disobedient trooper. 

His eyes widen at the figure that stands there. 

The dark cloaked figure reaches up and lifts the hood, revealing the face of a young, female Zabrak. Long dark hair tumbles around her shoulders, freed from the hood. She gazes at him with coal-black eyes, edged with the red of the embers. 

“I countermanded your orders for you, Major,” she says in a flat voice. He looks down at the bike, realizes that it has the same markings of the Corporal that had left him, not five minutes before. “I doubt that the Emperor, who we both serve, would see things as you do.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it. He looks, realizes that her arms are bare under the cloak. Her arms are streaked with dark, ash-like scars. She bears no insignia, except for a scarlet patch over her heart. He realizes that he had only seen that shade of scarlet one other place. 

On the robes of the Emperors’s personal guards. Four figures on the other bikes ride up. All dressed in a strange red plastoid armor. Armor that gives the appearance of flexibility, as well as protection. All bear strange edged and blunt weapons, in addition to a holstered officer’s blaster. 

Tonca gets the idea that the blasters are the secondary weapons. 

“Where is the Inquistorial Novice?” the Zabrak asks, a hard edge growing in her flat voice. 

He allows a bit of anger to seep into his own response. “What? I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t have time for this nonsense.” Tonca stops at something in her burning eyes. 

She smiles, an expression that doesn’t reassure him. “I think you’re right,” she says, her voice softening. 

A red lightsaber blade grows from her right hand. Oddly, as he starts to scream, he realizes it isn’t like the other Inquisitor’s spinning double blade, but with a single hilt, as well as a side-handle that she grips.

The thought is cut short by a intense, burning pain in his neck, the smell of burned flesh in his nostrils. He is struck by a sensation of falling. Or at least one part falling.

As he stares up through dimming vision at his own body, and at the Zabrak woman sheathing her blade, he realizes that he was right.

He would spend the rest of his life on this pit of a world.


	10. What mercy can He give you?—Dreams of the unborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Meglann blushes a bit. “Never thought I’d be on a pirate ship in the Outer Rim. Until a few months ago, I’d never been off of Alderaan. She looks at Thyla. “What about you, Thyla? How did you get here?”_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Thyla reaches over and pulls the bottle to her, taking a sip. She hands it to Meglann, who takes a sip. Thyla watches as the young woman fights the urge to cough. Finally, it appears that the urge has passed._
> 
>  
> 
> _“We never had a world to leave, “ Thyla says, looking down. “My brother and I were born in space. Grew up there with a family-owned freighter. Got dumped from there when our parents died. Tooled around among several other ships, learning our trades.” She grins. “My brother learned how to be a pretty good dancer. Never took with me.”_

Thyla Secura lounges in the giant tub in the Captain’s quarters of the _Opportunity_. She reaches up and touches her throat; feels the thick, soothing bacta salve on the abrasion from the cable. She tries not to dwell on the thoughts of the past, especially after she had watched the ship’s former gunner die on a hangman’s noose. She had intentionally stood there and locked her own eyes on his, to give him a loving face to see as he had died. Something she wouldn’t have had if their Quartermaster hadn’t sliced the cables. Even with the comforting bulk of Ritaambiggo standing next to her. They hadn’t been able to face each other in that Imperial hangar. 

For weeks after Mal had died, her own dreams had been haunted by the vision of her strangling at the end of the cable. In those dreams, Thorin had been beside her. 

Thyla ducks her head under the water, the warmth dispelling the memory. Other memories push their way into her mind. Some, like thoughts of her own demise, are dark. She sees Thorin’s staring eyes, one lek severed by the blaster bolt that had found his heart. This sight, as always, is viewed through the red haze in her right eye that fades into blackness as the fragment of metal shifts. Thyla remembers the two Jedi, Croft and Ahsoka—no, Ahsoka had given the Order up; Croft would follow soon after. She smiles as she thinks of the growing attraction for each other, as feelings changed. Thyla laughs out loud as memories of their clumsy movements to what everyone else knew to be inevitable.

Especially their Captain, who had provided the final shove. Her memory turns dark again at the emotions that accompanied Thorin’s death. The anger and blame for Croft, even though she knew in her heart of hearts that he wasn’t to blame; that Thorin had died for a cause greater than either of them, one that had ultimately failed in the chaos of a dying Republic. 

Her anger had died while standing over Croft’s bed, as he lay there in the throes of his grief. Mourning the loss of his way of life—the death of the closest thing he had to a parent.

Most probably that young woman that he had fallen into as well. 

She pulls her head under the water again, allowing the water to move her thoughts to the light again. The memory of walking into a bar, a year and a half after the Jedi Order had died, and seeing Ahsoka Tano sitting there, drinking bad bar whisky and waiting on a shady contact flows into her mind. She lifts up from the water and sighs.

When she opens her eye in the dim light, she realizes that she isn’t alone. The young Alderaani officer, _Meglann, that’s her name_ , stands over the tub. She holds a fresh towel, as well as a set of clothes. Thyla watches her appraisingly; the young woman looks down self-consciously at the loose, cutoff sweatshirt that leaves her arms and sides bare, bandeau, and shorts. Her feet are bare; Thyla giggles at the pink-painted toenails, as well as a fresh tattoo on the top of her right foot. 

A stylized, four armed star with another in the middle. The symbol of the Five Brothers of the Corellian system. A symbol in purple, gold, and green. The colors of the Elder Family of that world. That same Jedi cook from before, the most notable member of the family.

Thyla allows her gaze to move up their new cook’s long legs and and the amount of pale skin exposed along the way. Meglann returns her gaze unflinchingly, her eyes sparkling. Thyla’s look softens at the visible part of a large bruise spread out over the visible parts of her chest. A bruise whose force had been diffused slightly by the Imperial armor. 

“Brought you some clothes,” Meglann says, holding them up. “They’re some of mine. We’re about the same height, at least.” She looks down from Thyla’s face into the water.

Thyla meets her gaze. “Yeah. They might be a little tight though.” She looks down and then back up, a smirk on her face. “In certain places, at least.” She points to the edge of the tub, the slight bench. “Have a seat, dear,” she says. “It’s been awhile since I’ve talked to anyone that wasn’t threatening me.” 

Meglann lays the clothing down, away from the tub, then sits. She pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on the knees. Thyla smiles at the posture. 

“So how did you come to be here, Meglann?” she asks. 

Meglann is silent for a moment, before answering. “Might be a bit of a lost soul,” she says quietly. “Ahsoka helped me find my way a bit. Certainly wasn’t necessarily finding it on Alderaan. 

Thyla smiles as she sees the soft, wistful expression on Meglann’s face as she speaks of Ahsoka. _I don’t think she had to help too much, my girl_ , she thinks. “Seems like you might be able to figure it out for yourself, now,” she says. 

Meglann blushes a bit. “Never thought I’d be on a pirate ship in the Outer Rim. Until a few months ago, I’d never been off of Alderaan. She looks at Thyla. “What about you, Thyla? How did you get here?”

Thyla reaches over and pulls the bottle to her, taking a sip. She hands it to Meglann, who takes a sip. Thyla watches as the young woman fights the urge to cough. Finally, it appears that the urge has passed. 

“We never had a world to leave, “ Thyla says, looking down. “My brother and I were born in space. Grew up there with a family-owned freighter. Got dumped from there when our parents died. Tooled around among several other ships, learning our trades.” She grins. “My brother learned how to be a pretty good dancer. Never took with me.”

To her credit, Meglann doesn’t ask about Thorin. Thyla knows that she will always have a haunted look in her remaining eye when thinking of her twin. 

Meglann moves her arm from her knees, reaches over and touches Thyla’s neck. Her index finger traces the abrasion made by the rope. She stops after a second, catches herself. 

Thyla touches her hand, gently pulling and bringing it back to her skin. “Feels good,” she simply says. 

“I had one around my neck only a few weeks ago,” Meglann says, looking away.

Thyla raises her brow. “Really? You don’t strike me as the pirate-type, little girl.”

Meglann grins crookedly, ignoring the riposte. “Nope. Ship-thief on Fondor.”

Thyla laughs again. “Still. Can’t see anyone wanting to hang you.”

“Maybe your Captain,” Meglann says. They both laugh. 

“No. She’d just airlock you,” Thyla says. She shakes her head. “I think you might’ve shown her a thing or two.”

Meglann nods after a moment “Worse yet, it turns out it was family that was going to hang me,” she says. 

She notices that Meglann is staring at her, a curious look on her face. A look that becomes less curious and more sure as the seconds pass. Thyla picks up a loofah and starts to move it over her shoulders and lekku. After several moments of this, she stops and reaches over and up, her hand moving to Meglann’s cheek. The skin is warm under her palm. Her thumb moves down and strokes the lips. Meglann kisses the thumb. 

“It’s been awhile,” Thyla says. 

Meglann starts. “What? Oh, no,” she replies, starting to rise. “I mean, I’d like to, but I’m sort of engaged.” She laughs nervously. “Or something.”

Thyla’s eye locks on her. “To several people, from what I hear.”

Meglann doesn’t comment on the remark about the Affirmation of the Links. She relaxes.

Thyla moves her hand down to Meglann’s long neck. She feels Meglann’s breathing increase. She starts to move her free hand in slow circles in the water. Meglann’s eyes follow the hand, as if mesmerized. 

So mesmerized that she doesn’t feel the other hand tighten slightly on her neck. Or see Thyla’s smile grow mischievous.

She squeaks as Thyla pulls her into the tub, head-first.

Meglann bursts to the surface, sputtering. 

“Since you’re already wet,” Thyla says.

* * *

Ahsoka pours herself another small dram of the precious whisky. The rescue of Thyla and Ritaambiggo, as well as both of them agreeing to rejoin the crew, had been enough for Ahsoka to pull out the bottle of Tevraki Green that she had brought as a gift for Lassa. Ahsoka had been aware of its rarity, when she had purloined it from Draq’ Bel Iblis’s collection. 

She had been pretty certain at the time that the new head of Whyren’s Ancient could get his uncle an example of the competition to replace it. 

Lassa’s slight laughter intrudes into her thoughts. Lassa puts her glass down on the wardroom table. As if she is the one with the ability to read thoughts—a myth, to a certain extent, about Jedi—she says, “Kinda hard to wrap my noggin around the idea that Bryne Covenant is now respectable businessman. He can barely add two plus two, without getting five.”

Ahsoka matches her grin. “Yeah. But he can tell you why at one time it might’ve equaled five. I know. Even as a whisky-king. Good thing he’ll have some people to help him count while he goes out and does good.” She grows serious. Lassa’s bronze eyes narrow. 

“Which brings me to what I need, Lassa. You know what I do as my job, with Bail Organa and others?” she asks. 

After a half-second, Lassa nods tightly. 

_She knows what’s coming_ , Ahsoka thinks. 

“I need to build cells. Aside from Bryne and his miscreants; maybe another cell in the Outer Rim, and a couple of operatives here and there, I’m not building a lot of capacity. I need a cell I can depend on in the Rim. Someone I trust.”

Lassa contemplates the emerald liquid in her glass. She looks up. “What about Saw Gerrera? Didn’t you and he fight in the War together?”

Ahsoka feels her face tighten as she places her arms across her chest. “You know that’s not possible, Lassa. You were there on Stornan. You saw what he did.” She falls silent, remembering the parting from Saw. Only a short while before the agony of a pair of exploding lightsabers had nearly killed her.

“I saw that he was fighting the Empire. Your little movement might need some ruthlessness,” Lassa says. Something in her eyes as she looks away, trips a thought in Ahsoka’s brain.

As well as her heart.

“You’ve been in contact with him, haven’t you?” she asks softly. 

Lassa turns her gaze back to her friend. “Yeah. I’ve run some supplies for him. He pays well.”

Ahsoka falls silent. 

“I have to make a living, Ahsoka,” Lassa says. “I’m about one more charity job from getting voted out by the crew. Can your little social club guarantee a stream of income for them?”

Ahsoka doesn’t reply.

“I know you have credits, but I also know you’ll need them to build an army and a fleet. I know you’ve said you don’t want to lead it, but I can think of none better than you and Covenant.” She reaches over and takes Ahsoka’s hand in hers, raising the knuckles to her lips. With her other hand, she places a couple of fingers over Ahsoka’s lips to still her protests. 

“The Jedi are what put us in this mess in the first place,” Ahsoka whispers against the pirate’s skin. “I can’t speak for him, but I won’t lead troops into battle again.”

Lassa withdraws her fingers from Ahsoka’s lips, but maintains her loose grip on her hand. Lassa takes a deep breath, releases it. “I appreciate that retainer that Organa has paid us in the past. It’s saved my bacon a bit with certain elements of my crew. But I’m not a do-gooder like you or Bryne, like that Zeltron twit that you both hang out with.”

Ahsoka grits her teeth. “When the hell are you going to get over yourself? Dani is the most loving person in the universe. It takes a special fucking skill to make her to hold a grudge against someone.”

“I don’t know. She’s doing a pretty good imitation of it with me.” Her eyes turn hard. “She betrayed me at the end of the War.”

Ahsoka starts to get up. Lassa tightens her grip. 

“I’m going to call bullshit on that, Rhayme,” Ahsoka says. “Dani was doing her job, backing Bryne up.” She shakes her head angrily. “I don’t even know if either of you know what the hell it is you’re feuding about.” A mischievous expression grows over her face, as she sees something in Lassa’s eyes. She begins to laugh. “I think Bryne was right. I think that you both have the hots for one another and can’t let go of the feud long enough to act on it.”

“You’re full of shit, Tano,” Lassa replies. “I’d sooner fuck a gundark. Might have more of a chance of surviving the act.” She is unable to meet Ahsoka’s eyes. Ahsoka lets it drop, but the Smirk remains on her face.

Lassa doesn’t draw her hand back, as they sit in silence. Her thumb idly strokes Ahsoka’s palm, as they lose themselves in their thoughts. 

Finally, Ahsoka breaks the silence. She gets up, still holding Lassa’s hand. “You need to go to bed, Rhayme,” she says. 

A smirk of her own grows over Lassa’s face. “Might not be able to. Thyla was using the tub. I sent Junior in there with some towels. If I know my navigator, your ‘apprentice’ is in the tub with her.”

Ahsoka laughs. She stops as sees Lassa’s thoughtful expression. 

“Your college girl is growing on me. I see what you see in her. Maybe I can show her a thing or two, that might help keep her alive.”

“It’s all that I ask, dear,” Ahsoka replies. She feels a bit of devilment grow in her mind. “Enough to introduce her to _Rhayme’s Rules of Order for Bathtub Staff Meetings?”_

“I’m not sure if that’s covered in her university curriculum,” Lassa says as she gets up. She pulls Ahsoka into her arms, squeezing her tightly, then kissing her. “There’s room for four in that tub, dear,” she says. 

Ahsoka feels certain parts of her body pulling at her mind. She looks down. “No. I have to do some thinking,” she says, pushing Lassa away. 

Lassa’s eyes soften with understanding. “Call Bryne, Quartermaster,” she says. She turns and walks out of the wardroom. 

Ahsoka stands there. She turns to the port and contemplates hyperspace. She closes her eyes against the stab of a headache, building around that tri-colored light in her head.

* * *

Adis pours another large shot of the powerful alcohol into Ritaambiggo’s mug, then splashes some into his own. Biggo had already downed three healthy drams of the punch, with no appreciable change in demeanor. Adis had managed to match her, but already couldn’t feel the lower half of his face. He looks at the clear jug, the diminished level. He sighs heavily. _Guess I’ll have to speed that batch along in one of the gun tubs._

 _Worth it though_ , he thinks with a smile.

“+What are you grinning at, Tubby?+” the new engineer asks with an acerbic chuff.

“Just wondering if your big ass is worth my precious gunner’s punch,” he retorts. 

“+I’m managing to choke it down,+” she responds easily. She reaches across the table and cuffs him on the chest. “+Seriously, I haven’t had better,+” she adds.

Adis lifts one corner of his mouth in a smile, nods in acknowledgement. They both sit back in comfortable silence.

It is Biggo that breaks the silence. “+So how did you wind up here, Guns?+” she asks.

Adis looks down at his glass. He pushes the bright faces of his family; his ghosts away from him. “Got tired of fighting a war that I didn’t believe in,” he replies. 

Biggo’s bent whiskers twitch, her green eyes locked on his. “+Which side?+” she asks, a suspicious tone in the bark.

“Does it matter?” he asks. 

After a moment, she nods. “+I guess not. Guess both sides turned into the same damned thing. I fought against the Seppies on my world; we were fighting them off.+” She grins. “It’s how I got that nickname from the arena when I was kicking your Captain’s ass. ‘The Demoness of Kashyyyk’.+” She sobers. “+Then in a single minute, our allies became our enemies in one fell swoop. I watched our Jedi allies suddenly die under attack by their own troops.+”

Adis waits for her to continue. When she doesn’t, he joins in. “I’ve watched a couple of Jedi try to heal and mourn their losses. One of them, that young woman that saved your big ass, means more to this crew than most people. More to me. Both of them mean a lot to my captain.”

Biggo jerks her head in the equivalent of a nod. “+I understand. I left Kashyyyk when the Empire took over. Was drifting a bit, trying to find my nephew by mating. A soldier named Chewbacca. Found myself in some bit of debt from the sabacc table. That’s how I wound up in Jabba’s arena.”

She raises her glass, taps his with remarkable gentleness. They drink in silence, thinking of their lost and their dead. 

* * *

Bryne Covenant hears Shyla, as if he is under several centimeters of water. A part of him feels regret at the terrified expression on her face, as she tries to rouse him. He struggles to reassure her that he is fine, but is unable to speak.

Another part of his being is not so sure of his health, as scenes pass through his mind. He sees himself lying in another bed. A Pantoran pirate, powerful and unique in her love for her crew, expertly moves a razor over his face. Keeping vigil over him as he fights to stay in her world, not just the depths of the Force. Fighting an overwhelming grief from the destruction—the slaughter of his family; of his kind. 

The scene in his mind switches rapidly. He finds himself lying in the same bed, in the same cabin, the light much dimmer. He watches as the pirate and another, younger woman move towards him. The younger woman, her lekku twitching, her eyes filled with so many emotions, kisses Lassa Rhayme, then moves towards him, the skin of her naked body cool against his. 

Ahsoka moves towards him in his memory and takes another step with him. The light flashes in his mind as they join; it returns to that scene of his healing. He sees himself shaking his head from side to side as the memories cascade in his unconscious self.

He mourns that same young huntress, surely dead in the conflagration of Order 66. Or so he had thought at the time. 

He feels an intense, steamy warmth pervade his body. He sees a lush green planet, with flowering, almost translucent plant life. He feels his heart twist and careen through his chest as his eyes fall on another woman. A tall woman, her montrals high, the sign of an elder huntress of Ahsoka’s species. Her violet eyes regard him with the usual mix of humor and pride, with some consternation mixed in at something stupid he had done.

The pride and humor had always overwhelmed anything else. He stares at her form, barely concealed in a version of the hunting attire that she had worn in the past, when she had instructed him in the ways of her culture on Shili. He sheepishly realizes that the skimpy attire is the same that had seen through the eyes of an awe-struck adolescent male. Even now, at twice the age of that boy, he feels himself flush at the white camouflage markings and expanse of bared skin that was usually concealed by her Jedi robes. 

He feels a sheepish grin flowing to his features; he isn’t sure if Shyla can see it. _Okay, maybe not just awe_ , he thinks. 

His eyes focus on her again. He realizes that he had seen Shaak Ti before on this world. He thinks that his living self speaks the name of the world, but is unsure. His eyes widen as he sees the scene in front of him grow red. His mind screams as flames burst into being all around him. 

He can no longer see his master. He wonders if he speaks another word. The name of another.

Blackness.


	11. Children that haunt your soul like loving words unsaid—

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re probably right, Master,” Croft says quietly. Ti sees the look of triumph on Lorhena Marek’s face. One that she had known from the time that they were younglings together. A certitude of her own rightness in anything._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _“I probably won’t ever learn to keep my mouth shut. It’s probably what keeps me being sent down to Clawmouse clan to have my ego tested by Ahsoka Tano and those other younglings. But I’ve found in my limited experience that I learn a great deal from those brats. They always seem to give me a new perspective on things. Something like the fact that the Chronicles of Xim specifically contraindicate that those particular symbols mean anything when this one is present in that position,” he finishes, pointing at a small twisted arrow. “It indicates deception when taken with the rest.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Ti feels the warmth grow in her chest, a tightness that seems to affect her eyes as well. Marek stares at him, her eyes dark with anger. She stifles it, then smiles._

**The Past**

Ti watches as Croft brings the shuttle in for a landing amidst the jungle canopy. She returns her gaze to the cacophony of colors present on Felucia as they pass over a low ridge, next to a deep chasm. Her eyes lock on the gray stone ruins nestling against the ridge. The depth of the stone shows her in that brief glimpse that it’s probable that the structure extends into the ridge itself. The shuttle turns in the direction of a small settlement to the southwest, next to a well-traveled road. Before the arc from the east, she sees the smoke of what appears to be a small volcano across the chasm from the ruins.

She steals a glance back to her padawan as he concentrates on flying. She can see from his expression that other thoughts rather than the prevention of a fiery death are on his mind. Ti smiles as she realizes that she only perceives flashes of his thoughts through the training bond. His new status as a passed Jedi Shadow shows in his ability to shield. Something must be troubling him, if he is shielding. He uses the ability only rarely with her. She laughs under her breath as she thinks of the exceptions; exceptions that have more to do with other explorations. Explorations usually taking place in a secluded part of the Temple or one of the lesser-used meditation rooms. In the company of any one of three in his age group. Tol Venn, the Rutian Twi’lek with the careful smile on his azure face. Lan Alesha, the Alderaani, with a sly look on her own countenance, especially when dealing with Croft. The enigma that is Elle Jaquindo, a young woman from Chalacta who struggles with sentient interaction, but seems to always relax around the other three. Ti shakes her head slightly. _The company of any combination of the three_ , she thinks, remembering sensations of whispers and cries from the time before his shielding was so complete.

She notices that he is smiling as he concentrates. “You’re thinking too hard, my Master,” he says warmly. 

Ti rolls her eyes at his perceptiveness. “I could say the same about you, my padawan,” she says. “What’s on your mind?”

“Besides trying to battle these strange crosswinds that have come up? Just thinking about the mission. Kind of conflicted about working with Master Marek.”

Ti feels the tops of her eye sockets climb towards her headdress. “How so, Taliesin?” she asks.

He takes a deep breath. She feels a stab of uncertainty in the training bond. 

“Forgive me, my master. It’s not my place—” he says.

“Taliesin, I’ve always welcomed your insight. Even when it might be hard to hear. You can always speak freely with me, when we’re alone,” she says. 

He nods, but still remains silent. She mirrors his silence, allowing him to come to his own words.

“I’d just like to say that I hope to never disappoint you the way that I always seemed to disappoint her when she was my Shadow-teacher.”

Ti says nothing for several beats. “I think that you didn’t do anything to disappoint her, Taliesin. I think something else was at play there. I just wish that you’d never had to experience it.”

He nods. “I think that I might know what, but we’ll leave it at that.” He grins. “I’m looking forward to exploring some of Felucia’s ruins and history.” He nods towards the jungle.

Ti follows his gesture and sees a small clearing located near a dense line of trees. He begins the landing sequence. She look down and sees the small Jedi starfighter resting in the clearing. A small figure stands next to it, her hands on her hips. 

Ti takes a deep breath as she wonders if this strange dynamic between her eighteen-year-old padawan and the other Shadow will affect the mission.

* * *

Tamsin, Captain of the Corellian Engineering Corporation Corvette _Jamestyn’s Hope_ , and all-around pain in the ass to those who know her, looks up at her boss, a woman with her own reputation as a pain in the ass. 

Nola Vorserrie smiles down at her and says, “Feel free to mingle, Tams. You don’t necessarily have to stand around watching out for me. I’ve got to go meet someone.”

“Is this a _groiny_ meeting?” Tamsin asks.

“Probably not. Doing a favor for the Zeltron Senator and Head of State,” Nola replies evenly. 

“Oh, so the groiny part comes later. As a reward,” Tamsin finishes. 

Nola stares at her, her dark eyes searching for a retort. After a moment, she reaches over and kisses Tamsin. After a moment of artificial respiration and dueling tongues, Nola breaks away, a smirk on her face.

Tamsin says nothing, merely stares at her with widened eyes. “Wow, I finally managed to shut you up,” Nola says. She turns away, pulling her wrap over her bare shoulders.

After a moment, Tamsin shakes her head and turns to look at the crowd. She takes a sip from her flute of Toniray. She stops as she realizes that a tall woman, wearing the dress uniform of an Imperial naval officer stares after Nola’s retreating form in her little black thing—her own version of a dress uniform for this kind of shindig. Tamsin lets her eyes move down to a brand new rank plaque among the gold braid on her sleeves. She moves back up to the woman’s dark features. The look is not one of lust, but something else. 

Recognition. 

The Imperial officer moves her gaze to Tamsin. She raises her eyebrow, looking at the pilot appraisingly. She picks up two fresh Toniray flutes from a server droid. With a quick movement, Tamsin looks down at her own bottle-green frockcoat, making sure that there are no crumbs on the chest straps and that her collar is buttoned. For once, she thanks whoever required her to wear the uniform of the Honorable Company—the guardians of the Elector and the Companions of the Covenant—the last remnants of Corellia’s royalty. She thanks them because of a propensity for various admiring looks. Tamsin had already been able to drop more than a few trousers and skirts on the deck while wearing the thing. She drains her glass and sets it down.

“Commander,” she says as the officer hands her the fresh drink.

The woman smiles. Tamsin realizes that the Imperial is slightly younger than her, as well as taller, with a muscled form. “Rae Sloane. XO of the Star Destroyer _Resurgent_ ,” she says. 

Tamsin focuses on the tip of the pink tongue that briefly appears between the full lips. She shakes her head. “Tamsin. CEC.” She feels the firm grip of Sloane’s hand.

“This may make me sound like a bit of an asshole question, but that young woman that just left you. How do you know her?”

Tamsin manages to keep the thunder from her expression. “She’s my boss. The Chief Operating Officer for the Crowneshield Foundation for Refugees.” She debates about giving the name, but it is public record.

Or at least semi-public. 

“Nola—”

“Vorserrie,” Sloane finishes.

Tamsin is quiet. Rae gives a broad grin, with more than a rueful quality to it. “Nothing creepy,” she says. “I knew her several years ago. She would tell you that she saved my life. I would say that I had everything under control.”

Tamsin laughs, then stops as she sees the wistful look. “The one that got away?” she asks. 

Rae smiles again. Tamsin is struck by the power of the smile. “Maybe. But I really liked talking to her—someone who had no agenda.” She looks down. “At least I don’t think she did.”

 _Not so sure about that, sweetie_ , Tamsin thinks. Instead, she takes another sip from her drink. 

“Boss, huh?” Sloane asks. “Was that a performance review she gave you before she left?”

Tamsin tries to think of something smartass, but just shrugs. “Don’t know what brought that on. Maybe just my awesomeness.”

Sloane rolls her eyes. “I can tell you’re a pilot. Where’d you train?”

“Ashlana Academy on Alderaan.”

“Not bad. I met your boss on Alderaan.”

“Yeah. She was my boss there, as well. At least until she fired me.”

Sloane raises her eyebrows. “She hired you back, at least,” she says.

“Nope. She inherited me when she took this job.”

Sloane laughs, then finishes her drink. She looks into Tamsin’s eyes. She sets the glass down, then takes Tamsin’s empty one. Her hand lingers on Tamsin’s. 

“You had enough of the high life?” Sloane, _no, Rae_ , asks. 

Tamsin smiles. “So I’m the consolation prize?” she asks challengingly. 

“Maybe,” Rae replies. “Heard about you Ashlana weenies. I might need to uphold the honor of Carida Academy. ”

“Ahh,” Tamsin says. “Didn’t know I was in the company of such exalted greatness. Good thing I put on clean underwear.”

“Never wear the stuff,” Rae shoots back.

“Good to know,” Tamsin replies without missing a beat. “You think you can settle for a better ship-driver than you, rather than Ms. Shit-Hot executive—someone who uses her mouth for talking so much?”

“Yeah. I guess. As long as you don’t start going on about lift-mass ratios in the middle of me expanding your universe and blowing your mind.” She takes Tamsin’s hand and pulls her through the crowd to the door.

After a brief walk through the Federal District, the door opens on the visiting officer quarters. As she walks in, Sloane shoves Tamsin back against the bulkhead. Rae’s hands move to pull her frockcoat off as they both kiss.

Tamsin doesn’t usually bother with an undershirt, only a halter, so she is quick to be bared. She closes her eyes as Sloane’s lips play over her collarbone, before beginning the move southward.

An insistent chiming sounds. Tamsin tries to ignore it as she fumbles with the fastening of Sloane’s dress uniform, finally pulling it from the broad shoulders. Rae throws her own dress shirt off. Tamsin’s hands move over over the smooth muscles of Rae’s arms before coming to rest on her breasts. Her hands linger there for a moment, before moving down to the belt buckle of the uniform trousers. Sloane kicks her boots off.

“You going to get that?” Sloane manages to gasp out at the insistent chiming, as Tamsin’s fingers move to prove or disprove Rae’s statement about underwear.

Tamsin is about to reply in the negative, but sees the red light blinking on her comm. She sighs and picks up the device, her eyes thunderous.

The look on Shyla Merricope’s face silences the snark and anger on her lips.

* * *

Ti watches as Croft speaks in low tones with Lorhena Marek. Both of them seem to be engrossed in a small, tubular column of stone, near their landing site. She turns and takes a closer look at the object of some historical consternation. The column bears fading colors on the top two thirds, the bottom section is marked by the stone’s apparent natural colors. She smiles as she sees Croft’s fingers trace a particular marking on the faded red at the top. His fingers trace without touching, the budding historian being careful not to disrupt anything. 

She notices that Lorhena is watching him as well. Her eyes widen at the look in the other Master’s eyes. Ti is unable to decipher the look; she has only just learned to recognize and interpret young male humans’ facial cues. Ti tunes back in to the verbal part of the conversation. 

“I think that you’re completely wrong, _Padawan_ Croft,” Lorhena says, a growing edge to her voice. “These colors, matched with the directional symbols, surely point to the possibility that this world has a connection to a part of the Force.”

To his credit, Croft doesn’t back down in the face of a Jedi Master contradicting him. “I disagree, Master Marek. Red and green have been around for millions of years, in both the natural and sentient aspects of the world. It doesn’t necessarily mean the light and the dark sides of the Force. Plus, the gray is at the bottom, rather than between the two colors. In my reading, the artifact separates the two sides, rather than binds them together.”

“Croft, you haven’t studied this artifact for the years that I have. I think that you’re wrongly interpreting the column. You’re not taking into account the symbols present. I think that you should study more before you argue with your Masters. It’s one thing I don’t think you’ll ever learn. You’re not as clever as you think you are.”

Ti starts to move between them, but stops at a particular bit of body language she had learned with her apprentice. She smiles at the sensation of his feet sticking to the springy ground of this particular clearing. An impression that has been directed at her in the past. She watches with clinical interest at it is directed at someone else. 

“You’re probably right, Master,” Croft says quietly. Ti sees the look of triumph on Lorhena Marek’s face. One that she had known from the time that they were younglings together. A certitude of her own rightness in anything. 

“I probably won’t ever learn to keep my mouth shut. It’s probably what keeps me being sent down to Clawmouse clan to have my ego tested by Ahsoka Tano and those other younglings. But I’ve found in my limited experience that I learn a great deal from those brats. They always seem to give me a new perspective on things. Something like the fact that the _Chronicles of Xim_ specifically contraindicate that those particular symbols mean anything when this one is present in that position,” he finishes, pointing at a small twisted arrow. “It indicates deception when taken with the rest.” 

Ti feels the warmth grow in her chest, a tightness that seems to affect her eyes as well. Marek stares at him, her eyes dark with anger. She stifles it, then smiles.

“Well said, Taliesin,” she replies. 

Ti intercedes. “This debate is all well and good, but we’re here to interdict a smuggling operation. I suggest that we get started.”

Marek stares at her. After a moment, she nods. “So we are, Shaak. So we are.” She hefts her pack and moves off down the trail.

Ti and Croft remain silent for a moment. Croft breaks the pause. “I’m sorry, my Master, if I embarrassed you. Once again, I can only vow to do better.”

Ti shakes her head, reaching out and touching his shoulder. “No, Taliesin. I’m not so stuffy as to be embarrassed by someone taking a bully to task. You were respectful, but you got your point across.” She gazes at him fondly. “So what was that all about?”

He looks down. “Master Marek believes that there might be a valuable Force artifact here. One that she’s been trying to locate for years.” 

Ti feels her eyes narrow. “What do you know about it?”

“I’ve read a bit.” She grins at the nonchalant way that he says this. She cuffs his shoulder.

“Okay, so I’ve written a paper on it,” he says, blushing. “I think that most of the documentary evidence points towards it being on Malachor or some other world. That doesn’t say that there might not be aspects and clues to it here.”

She nods, her mind traveling to the insistence that Croft accompany them. She dispels the thoughts with a smile. She notices a sly look in Croft’s green eyes. “I do have a copy of it on my datapad, if you’d like to read it while we’re on our little camping trip.”

Ti matches his expression. “No. I’m sure that the singing around the campfire and the roasting of sweetpuffs will put me right to sleep. That and your snoring.”

“As I recall, you were the one that kept the _akul_ at bay the last time, Master,” he snarks. 

Their laughter follows them down the trail.

* * *

Nola walks into the hotel suite and moves towards the bedroom. She had broken off contact with a promising lead on a family matter for Dani’s new in-laws. Her eyes widen as she sees Shyla holding Bryne’s head. A medical droid scans over his body; he lies on the bed, the center of attention in the room. 

Nola’s eyes track over to the overstuffed chair next to the window. Phygus Baldrick, slicer and legend in his own mind, sits manipulating at least two datapads. Tamsin stands next to him, staring out of the window. Nola eyes the blaster stuck in the waistband of her trousers, a tank top and field jacket replacing the frock coat. She touches the small blaster in a hidden pocket of her wrap, ensuring that the comforting weight is still there, hidden even from any electronic eyes that might be snooping. 

Tamsin turns and looks at her, her eyes unreadable. Nola takes a deep breath. She sees Tamsin give her a look of rare sympathy as she forces herself to walk over to the bed and look closely at Covenant. She lets the breath out, a wave of dizziness sweeping into her brain. Nola has seen him in various stages of injury, to varying degrees. She has seen all of her loved ones in these stages. 

Nola Vorserrie has never seen any of them with this emptiness showing in their open eyes. The green is locked on the ceiling; an almost depthless darkness in them. A blankness that hides the usual light present, no matter the pain, grief, or chaos surrounding him. 

A cough sounds from near the chair. Nola turns, her eyes widening as she realizes that Draq’ Bel Iblis, former mover and shaker for yet another world that has taken her in, is staring at her in hologram form above one of Phygus’s datapads. 

He nods at her, his piercing eyes showing through even in the washed out hologram. Eyes that had seen many things in his sixty-odd years. Nola is touched at the look he gives her. _So many lives_ , she thinks.

“I was saying, Vorserrie,” he continues, “I think we should figure out a way to get him to Drall, so that Hegridhara can examine him.” The Drall physician and scientist is one of the best in the galaxy, a recognized expert in innovative treatments. Nola smiles as she thinks about how she is able to stand here worrying over her family, because of his expertise. She lifts her fingers to the faint scar on the right side of her chest, above the bodice of the cocktail dress. A scar that is the only external indicator of the fact that she is missing the top part of her right lung. 

Shyla lifts up from the bed. Nola touches her arm, shakes her head at the worry and dark circles under her eyes. “I disagree, Dragon,” she says to Bel Iblis. “I think this is a mind thing.” She looks at the droid.

“I can find no physical cause for his fugue state,” the droid says tonelessly. 

“I think we should get to Zeltros. I just spent weeks in the care of an incredible mind-healer. I tried to get him to see her, when I could tell something was bothering him,” Shyla responds

Draq’ digests this. “I don’t know. I have good reason to trust the Zeltrons—Sina Faygan’ii is family and a good physician and healer. I’d trust anyone she’d recommend. But I think that the Covenant of Corellia should be on his world.”

Tamsin speaks up from the window. “Might be a real trick to go anywhere. I just got a NOTAM from Control. There’s an embargo on Senatorial vessel liftoffs for the rest of the conclave. Some security poodoo.”

All of them take this news in. An archaic term from the time before anyone ever left the atmosphere. A Notice to Airmen and Mariners; an indicator of warning and prescription.

For the next week. 

“Okay. Dani’s available, as well as the other Hells. We’ll figure it out.”

“Hold off on the cavalry, Draq,” Phygus says. “I got an idea.”

There is a heavy silence, as they wait for the Dragonfire.

It never comes. 

“Okay, little man. It’s in your court. I’ll put’em on standby, for when your plan inevitably goes south.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dragon,” Baldrick says dryly. Nola walks over and ruffles his hair. She turns back to the pickup.

“There’s one other you need to notify, Draq’. We can’t keep this from her,” she says quietly. 

Everyone but Shyla and the droid recognizes who she refers to. Draq’ nods. “Okay. I’ll call Bail.” Without another word, he fades from view. 

Nola takes another deep breath and sits on the arm of the chair, next to Phygus. “What’s the plan, bud?” she asks. 

He punches a few buttons on the largest datapad. “Got some calls to make. I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out.”

“Thought you already had a plan,” she says accusingly.

“I had a certain percentage of one. Still smoothing the rough edges off, No-no.”

Nola bites back the threat of grievous bodily harm.

* * *

Bryne Covenant, once known as Taliesin Croft; born with yet another name, feels the tears falling on his face as he jumps from the Kaminoan city yet again. Each of the last ten viewings of the slaughter of his master has alternated between two versions. Only one of them had he seen before. 

The second, the one that had seemed to begin to loop again and again, overriding his memory, shows the clone trooper at the end slide the muzzle of his pistol over to the right, deliberately missing with the coup de grace. 

He feels himself blow out his breath in frustration. Something in that loop was blurred, becoming indistinct. More indistinct with each viewing. A flash of light plays over his mind, then darkness surrounds all of his senses. 

Lorhena Marek’s face comes into his view. A vague memory, one that becomes more clear through the mists of over a decade.

“So much knowledge could be gained here, Taliesin. You’re a scholar, even if you like to say you’ve moved on from it. This could change everything if we can find the—” She stops as he holds up his hand. 

“No, Master,” he says. “Our mission is to take down a smuggling ring, threatening to cut off the supply of nysillin. This is a vital mission.”

Marek shakes her head. “Taliesin, your thoughts on Xim’s treatises showed me exactly how right I was to bring you here. You understand about the Asundrance. I’ve found more evidence that could prove the link between Felucia and Malachor. We both could be right. Can you get it through your thick Corellian head that the thesis of your paper could be proven right?”

He looks away, a moment of indecision in the forefront of his mind. He sees Ti’s face; both the pride and the disappointment.

“No,” he whispers. “I won’t break my master’s trust. I think you brought us here under false pretenses.

“I won’t break her trust,” he repeats. 

Lorhena’s reply is lost as the chords of memory are ripped away.  
 


	12. Dreams, as a song half-heard through sleep in early morn?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lassa is not sure that in the half-decade or so that she has known Ahsoka Tano, she has ever heard her voice with this tone of almost resignation. An indicator of something that might be the last defeat, the last pain, that she can take. She shakes her head. “Ahsoka,” she says, keeping her own tone even. “I sat here in this very alcove with him, over five years ago. I watched him lie there, out of physical pain and danger, but not waking up. As if waking up was too much to bear. I remember hoping that he was in a world in which his master didn’t die. A world that he was lying in the arms of his hunt-sister, without the pain and loss of his way of life. A world that he was able to explore those newfound emotions with her.” She touches Ahsoka’s cheek again. “With you,” she finishes._

Meglann walks into the crew mess. As she breaks the threshold, she stops and takes a deep breath. She looks down at herself, at her clothing. Everything is in place; there are no exposed spots of skin, well, no more than there usually are in a tanktop and cargo pants.

She feels the eyes of the crew on her, just as they had been on her since she had left Lassa’s cabin. _Maybe just in her mind_ , she thinks. 

Her eyes fall on Ahsoka, sitting alone at one of the tables. Her mentor stares at her, an unreadable expression on her face as she sips caf. Meglann looks down, and then away, blushing slightly under the scrutiny from both Ahsoka and the entire rest of the crew. 

When she looks back, she sees the left corner of Ahsoka’s mouth quirking slightly, alternating between upwards and neutral. Meglann realizes with a start that she is staring at those lips—not just the expressions. She shakes her head. _Aren’t those the thoughts that got you into this in the first place?_

She feels her eyebrows raise as she realizes that Ahsoka is no longer fighting the war of expressions, but looking at her with a broad grin on her face. 

“How was the staff meeting?” she asks dryly. 

Meglann feels the warmth on her face increasing exponentially under the smiling gaze. “I—” she starts, suddenly unable to form coherent thoughts into words. 

Ahsoka gestures to sit next to her on the small bench. As she does, Meglann feels a hand draw her in close. The other hand pours her a cup of the dark engine-room caf. She busies herself with the ritual of fixing it to liking, spooning sweet-spice into it, but eschewing the cream. She starts as she realizes that she has suddenly adopted the same ritual as the woman leaning into her, copied from a certain Corellian. She puts the spoon down, looking at the offending cup. Without a word, she dumps cream into the cup, as well, as she had from the time that she had started drinking caf.

She feels Ahsoka take her hand into hers; she feels the tight squeeze of the slightly cooler skin against hers. As she looks up, she sees that the rest of the crew has gone about their business. 

If they had ever been paying attention to her and the invisible mark on her forehead which seems to scream, ‘I just spent the night sandwiched between the ship’s Captain and the navigator.’ Oddly, she wonders what that mark looks like.

She notices that Ahsoka is looking at her with that intense blue gaze. “I know how it feels, sweetie,” she says. “I once had to do the same ‘walk of shame’ after my first night with Lassa. Added to it, Bryne Covenant was waiting in the galley.” She grins. “I was dressed a little different though. Some sort of wrap-top and a long filmy skirt. Gave more of an indication I was up to something; it didn’t leave much to the imagination.”

Meglann smiles at that vision in her mind, then looks away again.

“You know, I wasn’t there for the formation of this whole Links thing, but I’m pretty sure, given who was, that nothing has really changed between all of us,” Ahsoka says. Meglann grins crookedly. Ahsoka’s expression grows softer. “We’ve never been exclusive, Hammer. All of us find some way to keep ourselves in the light. Maybe we just have a little official paper, now, in the Electoral Council’s archives. Something that I’m sure that your grandmother brings out every once in a while to look at.”

Meglann giggles at the thought of Sulen Gallamby, the Archivist of the Elector, looking at whatever bit of parchment that might name the Links. At least those that can be named.

“I think that it might be the most important thing, that we don’t succumb to the pain and the dark thoughts,” Ahsoka finishes. 

Meglann nods. “I know. Just feels weirder, now.” She hugs Ahsoka to her, tightly. 

“Do you think that Bryne still intends to bring Lassa into the Affirmation? As another Link? Maybe even as the Other?” she asks, using the term of the Link that might be on the outside.

Ahsoka looks down. “I don’t know. I still don’t understand it all, the whole bring someone in so that you can keep an eye on them, on their own path. Lassa is as close to us as any, closer than Delilah Sal, but there might be other considerations. Especially if I can’t get her to become part of the movement.”

“The added bonus is, we don’t have to worry about her slipping a knife into our backs like we would the Imperial Advisor of Corellia,” Meglann says.

“Except for Dani, maybe,” Ahsoka says in an acerbic tone. Both manage to laugh as they think of the ongoing, nonsensical feud between the two powerful women.

Ahsoka moves her comm up as she hears it buzz. Her eyes widen as she sees the indicator. She turns away; Meglann instinctively moves to where her body blocks the holo from the rest of the few crew members in the mess.

Meglann sees Ahsoka’s face fall at the expressions on the faces of the two men on the call.

Draq’ Bel Iblis looks at Bail Organa, then takes a deep breath. 

Meglann’s own heart clinches.

* * *

Lassa opens her eyes, starting awake. Her eyes are drawn to the blue-white chaos of hyperspace outside the port. She realizes that the shaving brush had managed to stay in her hand in the midst of her doze. She sighs and puts the brush back down on the nightstand. She wills herself to look back at the man’s face lying on the bed in the alcove. A glance at the medical monitor, a repetitive motion for these two or three months or so, assures her that he is, in fact, still alive.

His breathing is so shallow that she sometimes has trouble making it out. Lassa shifts upwards out of the chair and turns slightly to the nightstand. She lifts up the straight razor and reaches out to his face with her left hand, turning it slightly. His skin is warm on her hand as she touches the razor to his face, at the beginning of a daily ritual. A ritual kept up with since he had been stabilized and allowed to move into this alcove by her medical droid. 

As her hand moves the razor deftly over his face, she, as always, wonders why she bothers. His body is almost healed from the wounds he’d received on Kamino. Two had said in his dry, clinical voice that he has no idea what is keeping him unconscious. Lassa stops shaving as one side is completed. She touches the smooth surface, now free of the light stubble. She smiles as she remembers when he had first come onto the ship; her erstwhile ship’s cook. His face had been obscured by gold-streaked, reddish-brown beard. A beard impressive enough to cover the upper reaches of his chest. 

She finishes her self-appointed task, placing the razor on the tray on the table. Her fingers move through Tal’s hair, just beginning to grow out from his shaven-headed disguise. She smiles at the memory of his short-cropped hair from the time before. The same shade as his beard, if just a bit darker. The smile fades as her fingers continue to move through the now iron-gray hair. Her fingers trail back down to his cheek. As she feels the warmth of his skin, her mind is drawn back to the touch of another, cooler skin. Her mind’s eye flows into the memory of this man entwined with another, as both of them lie in her bed. Smiling, letting the cares of survival move from their mind and faces as they fall into each other, and her. 

Another most likely dead. 

She looks up as she hears a noise behind her. 

“You need to stop sitting here, waiting on a dead man to wake up,” Thyla Secura says bluntly. 

Lassa turns, her bronze eyes flashing fire even in her own mind. She sees no anger on the countenance, in the single remaining eye. Lassa forces herself to look at the ruined right eye, which stares uncovered at her. She bites back her reply, instead lifts her hand to her navigator’s cheek on the same side. “I know. But I feel that I owe it to him. To Ahsoka.” She looks away, unable to meet Thyla’s gaze. “To Thorin,” she whispers. 

Thyla places her hand over Lassa’s. She closes her other eye. “It almost doesn’t hurt anymore,” she whispers. The amber eye snaps open. “The hole in my heart where my brother was still does.”

Lassa feels her resolve crumble as the tears flow and the sobs come unbidden. After a moment, she feels Thyla’s arms go around her, in spite of everything. Lassa is fairly certain she hasn’t cried since a day that she watched her first love and his sister and her heart-bond swinging in the breeze. 

She feels Thyla’s arms fall. “That doesn’t mean that I’m not trying to live my own life,” she hears in the familiar Ryl accent. “None of our dead would want us to curl up and die for them.”

Through the haze of her vision, she sees Thyla hurriedly move from the room, her own face crumpled, as if unable to bear the sights and sounds of Lassa’s grief. Lassa forces her own gaze back to the bed. She draws in a deep breath as sees that his green eyes; eyes that she hadn’t seen in weeks are staring at her. She isn’t sure that he sees her.

His ragged, unused voice forms around one word. “Felucia,” he whispers, along with something else. A name of some kind. The eyes close again and he is back to his dream world.

Lassa starts awake, confused. She feels Thyla nestle in against her side, murmuring slightly. Her left hand moves over to the other side of the bed. She realizes that Meglann is no longer lying against that side, their limbs entwined. She looks at the chronometer; she sees that it is much later in the ship’s morning than she normally awakens.

Lassa gently lifts Thyla’s arm from her, then rises. She runs her hand over the nearest lek. Thyla doesn’t stir, only breathes evenly, deep in sleep. Probably for the first time in months. 

Lassa pulls on her dress shirt, then pads over to the alcove. The medbed no longer rests there, it hasn’t in nearly a half-decade. She struggles with her memory, playing it over in her mind before it inevitably disappears. She notices that this vision stays in her head. She wonders why she had remembered that; she hadn’t recalled the incident in years, much less the words he had said.

She turns as the door to the cabin opens. Ahsoka and Meglann stand framed there. She starts to say something, but stops at the look, the raw sadness on both of their faces. She crosses over to them and pull them both into the compartment.

Both of them continue into her arms, into her tight embrace. 

She holds them, without a word.

Her mind immediately travels back to the world that they had just left.

* * *

Darius Louch, a naval trooper in the service of the Empire, stands his post at docking bay A-22, in the Senatorial complex. The young trooper, all of eighteen years old, sighs as he shifts on his unlocked knees. The shift had been interminable, with an added bit of complexity with having to turn away several crew members for the CR-90 resting in the bay because of the temporary embargo on departures during the Senatorial opening ceremonies. 

Several times. With several different stories. The latest had been the Captain of the ship, a woman who had stared at him as if he was scum on the surface of the pond that he had once swam and fished in. She had crossed her arms over her chest; an expression on her face that had caused Darius to have to fight not to place his hands on his blaster. Her high, imposing crest of orange, blue, and brown hair that had run over the center of her shaven head hadn’t helped ease his apprehension, before she turned away.

His orders had given him no leeway, as dock Control hadn’t seen fit to put gravity locks on the Senatorial vessels, like they should have in Darius’s vast experience in such matters.

The door to the outer corridor opens. A tall woman walks out, even taller than the trooper is by a few centimeters. She walks up to him, appraising him with cool look on her sharp features. She raises an eyebrow. For an instant, Darius suddenly feels as if he is back on the backwater colony world of his birth, fumbling and stuttering under the scrutiny of several of the girls of his age as he attempted the age-old dance.

He tears his eyes away from her, forcing them down to the being standing next to her. 

And down. Down to less than half of her height. A very small male stands next to her, eyeing him with an even less welcoming expression than his companion. Darius tries not to stare at his shaven head; a bright red jewel in the center of his forehead. He is clad in rich silk robes that leave his arms bare. 

The woman’s voice brings his attention back to her. “I’m an aide to Senator Mon Mothma of Chandrila,” she says. She pulls out a set of scandocs that confirm her words. “I’m attempting to escort Preceptor Ano here back to his homeworld of Fondor. He’s a high official, here for the conclave. We’re just waiting on some important cargo for Senator Garm Bel Iblis of Corellia. We’re expecting clearance to come from Senator Carto’s office; we need to get our crew on the ship.”

“I’ve heard nothing of this,” Darius manages to get out under her intense scrutiny. He takes an involuntary step back, stumbling slightly as his back touches the wall, at the darker look from her eyes at his words. 

A piercing cry comes from a place near her left thigh. Darius stares in apprehension as the Preceptor falls to the ground, his fists and feet banging on the deck as the crying turns to wailing, his eyes closed tightly. 

The tall woman looks down at her charge, a surprised look on her face. She recovers quickly. “Now you’ve done it,” she says, her voice dry. “There’ll be no living with him.”

Darius manages to look up from the spectacle as more people crowd into the corridor. He is conscious of his uniform trousers suddenly becoming tighter as a tall, crimson-skinned woman comes into his vision. 

Apparently his voice is linked to his groin, as it refuses to obey. Two humans step from behind the _Zeltron, yes, that’s what they’re called_ , a part of his mind tells him. He focuses on them. A tall human male, his eyes hard and a slighter human female, her short hair a bright splash of color against her pale skin and even paler clothes. Her blue eyes are just as piercing as her companion’s brown, but leavened with a look that he remembered from his mother. A look with just a spark of compassionate humor. 

He opens his mouth again, but is interrupted by a harsh voice from another door, against the backdrop of Preceptor Ano’s carrying on.

“What’s all this, then?” his Lieutenant asks.

* * *

Ahsoka stares out of the porthole in the small alcove as Lassa walks into her cabin. Her chin is pillowed in her right hand on the arm of the settee. Ahsoka doesn’t acknowledge her presence. Lassa walks over and sits at the opposite end, her own hands resting on her knees. She watches Ahsoka’s profile as she gazes at the twists and turns of their hyperspace route. 

Once, twice; Lassa reaches out to touch her. Each time Ahsoka’s expression remains unchanged. She draws a deep breath, then moves closer to Ahsoka on the sofa. She touches the wing markings on her cheek, then gently draws Ahsoka around, away from the stars. For a brief moment, the blue eyes lock on hers, flashing with anger at the intrusion. Lassa forges ahead, wrapping her hand around her head, gently completing the rotation of Ahsoka’s body.

Ahsoka allows her to pull her head down to her shoulder. For several moments, they rest there, their breathing moving into sync with each other; comfortable in their silence. 

Lassa reaches over with her right hand and brings Ahsoka’s face around, then kisses her gently in the center of the two diamond-shaped forehead markings. She sees a ghost of a smile on the full lips as she pulls away. “Love, Bryne is one of the most resilient people I know,” she says. A grin flows to her features. “Maybe right behind this idiot that I have in my arms right now.”

Ahsoka doesn’t say anything for several seconds. She takes a breath and nods. “I know,” she whispers. 

Lassa is not sure that in the half-decade or so that she has known Ahsoka Tano, she has ever heard her voice with this tone of almost resignation. An indicator of something that might be the last defeat, the last pain, that she can take. She shakes her head. “Ahsoka,” she says, keeping her own tone even. “I sat here in this very alcove with him, over five years ago. I watched him lie there, out of physical pain and danger, but not waking up. As if waking up was too much to bear. I remember hoping that he was in a world in which his master didn’t die. A world that he was lying in the arms of his hunt-sister, without the pain and loss of his way of life. A world that he was able to explore those newfound emotions with her.” She touches Ahsoka’s cheek again. “With you,” she finishes. 

She looks away as the tears sting her eyes. “Several days during that time, I nearly gave up. I nearly put him off on some world, where I didn’t have to stare at him and watch him die. Because I knew that he wasn’t remembering the good times.” She notices that Ahsoka looks at her with wide, shocked eyes. “The only thing that kept me going was my own memory of one of those good times. Of one night in that bed over there, where I watched his feelings for you grow; I watched both of you grow, when he entered you for the first time. I remembered the emotions—the tenderness in both of you. I knew then that I couldn’t let him die alone, that I couldn’t abandon him. That I would see this thing through with him. For you. For your memory, if nothing else, at the time.”

Ahsoka remains quiet for another heartbeat or two, then pulls their foreheads together. “I know, Lassa,” she repeats. “I’m glad that you kept your vigil.”

“I never told you this, Ahsoka. But I was so privileged that night. To see that bond forming into something different. Something just as strong, but with different cords.”

She watches as Ahsoka digests this. She nods. 

“Did he ever wake up during that time? Even for a moment?” Ahsoka asks.

Lassa’s heart clinches with her recent dream of that time. “I didn’t think so, until I had a dream last night. I’d blanked it out.” She takes both of Ahsoka’s cool hands into her. “He woke up one morning, just for an instant. He said something. Two words. Strangely enough one was ‘Felucia’.

“The other sounded like a name.

“Marek.”

She sees a hint of recognition, of a half-memory on Ahsoka’s face. Something hopeful.

Ahsoka stands up. “They might have him off of Coruscant. Draq’ said they’re going to take him to Corellia, to a doctor we know.”

Lassa nods at the hopeful tone in the clear voice. “Yeah. We might make it there at the same time they do.”

Ahsoka hugs her to her chest. Lassa feels the resolve strengthen in the younger woman.


	13. I see you in the chapel, where you bend before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ti feels her brow markings raise, nearly to the level of her headdress. “Never been accused of being narrow-minded,” she replies dryly. “Maybe by those who peddle unmitigated bullshit to me and call it meatloaf.”_
> 
> _Lorhena’s own sculpted eyebrows rise at the unfamiliar language from Ti. Ti briefly wonders if her padawan’s unfiltered Corellian inflection has influenced her. Next I’ll be talking slower and using a crooked grin to get what I want from people. She hopes that Marek doesn’t see the slight head shake and smile._
> 
> _That same drawling voice intrudes into her mind, through the training bond. Oh, don’t blame me for something you already possess, my master. I’ve seen you work your magic on others with that serene smile and beautiful accent, her mind-Croft says._

“I’m sorry, Senators. My sincerest apologies,” the lieutenant says. Darius Louch somehow manages not to snort at the obsequiousness from his temporary commanding officer. _Stupid-ass Army puke. He doesn’t have a sincere bone in his body._

“I simply cannot allow anyone on the Senatorial ships while we have this embargo on,” the officer continues.

 _Not necessarily true_ , Louch thinks. _He just wants to see what’s in that big crate. Doesn’t often get to look for stuff he can steal from Senator-types._

“Why would that be?” the male Senator—the Corellian, I think—asks, his eyes hard as he examines the officer like a bug to be squashed. The officer is apparently too stupid to recognize the look. _That, or the Outer Rim backwater doesn’t exactly provide a primer on dealing with Senators._ Darius smiles at himself with all of he worldliness of his own lofty age and experience. _Probably why I haven’t bothered learning his name._

“Uhh, because of the Grand Vizier’s rescript. All Senators must be accounted for. Security reasons.”

The slightly younger Chandrilan woman speaks up. “I’m sure that Mas Amedda will understand. We have to get Preceptor Ano to his world for the funeral gathering. Senator na’Torstan’ii and my staff member will be here to accompany them.”

Lieutenant No-name looks at the Corellian, Bel Iblis. “What about you, Senator Bel Iblis?” he asks. 

Bel Iblis smiles. “It’s my ship,” he says pleasantly. 

“I still can’t let you onboard. Not without authorization.”

Darius sees Senator Mothma—the Chandrilan’s, eyes flash. Her restrained anger is almost more impressive than Garm Bel Iblis’s. “I’m going to Mas Amedda’s office, Lieutenant. I’ll get this cleared up.”

“I’ll go with you,” Bel Iblis says. As they turn to leave, Darius catches a quick smile between Garm and the Zeltron. In spite of other feelings that the Zeltron party seem to be initiating in him, his more job-related senses come alert.

“Lieutenant—” he starts.

“What?” the officer says, his eyes locked on the mesmerizing green eyes of the Zeltron. He finally turns to the naval trooper.

“I think that we should check this crate,” Louch says. His eyes attempt to tell the officer that something might be up. As he does, na’Torstan’ii moves between the Imperials and the long crate. She makes sure that the Lieutenant’s eyes follow her and the expanse of exposed crimson skin. 

Louch shakes his head and walks over to the crate. Without warning, he touches the opening switch.

His eyes fall on the several dozen bottles of flawless amber liquid sitting in several cases. He looks at the Lieutenant with widened eyes. All that he sees in the officer’s eyes is greed. He pulls one of the bottles up. Thirty year old Whyren’s single-malt whisky.

The Lieutenant turns to the tall human. “This could go very bad for you. There are no tax holostamps on these cases.”

The aide smiles. “These are funeral offerings from Senator Bel Iblis. The former Diktat is an executive of the company. The Senator is related to the Spirit-master General, by marriage.”

Senator na’Torstan’ii pipes up, placing her hand on the Lieutenant’s chest. “I’m sure that we could come to an accommodation, General,” she says, the purring inflection evident in her voice. “There are, after all, five cases here. More than enough for an offering.”

Louch shakes his head as the indecision rises on the officer’s face. “Lieutenant, I think that we can’t get caught taking this.” He takes a deep breath, puts his hand on his pistol. His vision dims from the edge; takes on a fuzzy quality. He realizes that the tiny Preceptor is speaking, but with no accented inflection now. 

With no wailing, either.

His hearing takes on the same fuzzy quality—almost like a speaker with reverb. 

“You want to take two cases of whisky each and leave us until permission comes through from the Vizier’s office,” the Preceptor says. 

Louch shakes his head. _Wait, what?_

He starts to speak, finds that he can’t. He hears his useless officer repeat the exact words from the diminutive Fondorian. Louch focuses his dim vision on the jewel in the center of the Preceptor’s bald head. The Preceptor’s dark gray eyes seem to take on an otherworldly quality, as well, as the trooper feels his vocal chords engage.

“We want to take two cases of whisky each and leave you until permission comes through from the Vizier’s office,” he hears his voice intoning, as if from a distance. 

The Preceptor waves his hand again. Louch’s eyes widen at the sweat breaking out around the jewel in the forehead. 

“Move along,” Preceptor Ano says. 

Fleet Trooper Louch realizes that he is back in the barracks, seated on his bunk. His fellow marines are each pulling one of the twenty-four bottles from the cases. 

He doesn’t think about how he got there, as he grabs his own bottle.

* * *

Tamsin watches silently as two of her crewmembers guide the pallet with the heavy burden of the long crate. Her eyes fall on Nola and Senator na’Torstan’ii supporting the ‘Preceptor.’ She moves into the entryport on to the quarterdeck space as she sees Baldrick’s pale, strained face. Her worry dissipates as she sees the smirk on his face as his eyes focus on her half-opened dress shirt.

“You little twerp,” Nola says as she sees his look. “Here I thought that you’d just been the hero of the hour, but instead, you show your true colors.”

“It’s only because you had your shirt buttoned up, No-no,” he says. Tamsin laughs at her look. Nola raises her hand, as if to cuff him, then moves it down to his cheek. 

“You certainly know how to impress me, Phygus,” Nola says. “I sometimes forget that you can do that.”

His grin widens. “I sometimes forget it myself, No-no. I’ve damn sure tried,” he replies. 

Tamsin is treated to the sight of Nola Vorserrie, an executive with the Crowneshield Foundation, bane of many people’s existence, and all-around world-class pain in Tamsin’s own ass, reaching down and kissing Phygus Baldrick’s forehead tenderly. Her dark eyes tear. With only a breath, she moves her lips down to his and kisses him. She turns away and shifts over to the crate. Before her attention switches to the task at hand, she sees Kanyly na’Torstan’ii reach down and give Phygus a much longer and deeper kiss. Phygus just manages to reach a chair and sit down, his eyes wide. Kanyly sits down next to him and brings his head to her chest.

Tamsin’s medical droid, 21-VC, trundles over to the crate. “I’m waiting,” she says in an impatient tone with a hint of a Twi’lek inflection. Somehow the droid gives the mechanical impression of foot-tapping. The two crewmembers open it and lift the one remaining whisky case out.

“Whenever Bryne gets out of this, he’s going to be pissed that we wasted so much expensive hooch getting his ass off of Coruscant,” Tamsin says. “It’s an admittedly fine one, but not sure it’s worth four cases of single malt.”

“Four bottles,” Nola says absently, as the crewmembers reach down with a spanner. 

“Huh?” Tamsin asks. 

“There’s only four bottles, one in each case. The rest is well whisky from whatever dive we could get it from, repackaged.”

Tamsin rolls her eyes, but sobers when Obie and the other crewmember pry the bottom of the crate off. She takes a deep breath and looks over the edge.

Bryne Covenant lies in the false bottom of the crate. He is clad in a bacta-filled suit, his heartrate and respiration steady on the monitor attached. VeeCee moves closer and extends a probe to the monitor. She is silent for several moments. She disconnects and then turns. “His vitals are stable. I think that you were right to put him in bacta, even though we don’t know what’s happened. I’m going to put him in a full tank to keep him stable until we get to Doctor Hegridhara on Drall.”

“I don’t think that’s where he needs to go,” a calm voice says from the hatch. They all turn. Shyla Merricope stands there in a hooded, bottle-green cloak. Her dark eyes brim with concern as they fall on Bryne. 

“What do you mean, Shyla?” Nola asks. “Heg’s one of best in the galaxy for creative solutions.” Tamsin sees her eyes track downward, her hand touching above her right breast. “I should know,” she whispers.

“I think this is an illness of his mind,” Shyla says. “He was showing signs of it when we left Zeltros. I tried to get him to see the mind-healer, Lyndia Gorlute. The one who saved me.” 

Tamsin takes a deep breath at Shyla’s bluntness. She locks eyes with Nola. After a moment, Nola nods. 

“I agree,” Kanyly says. “Lyndia’s one of the best on our world. She’ll be able to find out what’s going on in there.”

“Should be a quick trip,” Phygus says. “Ain’t much going on in my little brother’s head.” His eyes belie his words as he watches a stretcher droid move into position next to the crate.

The laughter breaks the tension. “I’ll call Draq’ and Dani, tell them of the change in plans,” Nola says. “I think it might still be good to have Heg meet us on Zeltros. Dani can probably go get him in the _Draq’stone.”_

“Yeah,” Tamsin starts, “that’s all well and good, but how the hell do we get off of this rock? We took care of the guards, but we still have a Senatorial interdiction.”

Phygus lifts up from where he has returned to his close inspection of the threads on the Right Honorable Senator from Zeltros’s low-cut bodice. “Leave that to me. Garm was already working on getting this tub decertified as a Senatorial vessel, to take the handsome Preceptor back to his homeworld.”

“I guess that means that Kanyly and I will stay here to mind the store,” Shyla says. 

“How are we going to account for Bryne’s absence?” Tamsin asks. “That’s a pretty big lord to be offworld. It’s why we did this whole circus—to get him past the guards,” she adds, pointing over the now abandoned crate.

“Easy,” Nola replies. She looks at Phygus, Kanyly, and Shyla. “Good ol’ Phygus is going to have him at every party in the Federal district, as least in the holosheets.” She grins at the two women. “Usually with a beautiful Senator or ex-Diktat on his arm. Or both.The boy might be getting worn out and he isn’t even around to appreciate it.”

Kanyly nods and smiles. “My heart-bond will soon be here. I’m sure that he’ll help cement Bryne’s reputation a bit as well.” Tamsin’s eyes widen as she remembers who the heart-bond is. Boman Torstan’ii, elected monarch of Zeltros. She smirks as she sees Kanyly stand up and give Phygus a goodbye kiss. “Perhaps another time, Mr. Baldrick,” she says.

“I’ll look forward to it, Senator,” he says. She nods and turns to go. 

Nola stops Shyla. “Will you come back to Corellia after the embargo is lifted, Shy?”

Shyla shakes her head. “I’m going on to Nar Shaddaa, Nola,” she says. “Geddan the Hutt is well-disposed to me, right at this moment. It might not last. We might need him, later.”

The younger woman pulls her into a tight embrace as Tamsin watches. “Dani will miss you, Shyla. I think you’ve done each other a lot of good.”

Tamsin turns away to give them privacy; Shyla’s reply is lost as she does. She looks down at Bryne, now secure on a stretcher-droid. Her heart twists as she sees his green eyes open and staring. 

As if seeing nothing.

**The Past**

Taliesin Croft walks up to the small clearing; up to where his master stands contemplating the large valley below. He steels himself, seeing the tightness in her shoulders and back. Tightness that he rarely sees, only present when she thinks that he isn’t looking. Usually present because of something stupid that he’s done. 

An indicator of her attempt to control her emotions, of a struggle with fear and anger. He smiles, as he recognizes the particular set of her right shoulder—the one that leans towards the latter. He can only hope that it isn’t directed at him.

He looks down, wondering what he can say. Lorhena Marek had misrepresented— _no, call it what it is_ —had lied about the smuggling ring here on Felucia.

They had reached the valley and had discovered only remains of a small base camp in a clearing. Remains that were several months old.

He closes his eyes, reaching out to his master. Sending as much calming energy as he can through the link of their training bond. He smiles as he feels a like expression form in her own mind. She turns, a warm smile for him, in spite of her anger. 

“I’m sorry, my master,” he says quietly. He bows to her. “I didn’t know what Master Marek was up to. Even after our discussion and brief exploration of those artifacts.”

Ti nods after a moment. “I know, Taliesin. I’d never think that you would be a part of deceiving me. It’s just now I have to figure out if I want to continue with this at all. She has diverted another Jedi Master and a padawan for what could be construed as her own purposes.”

Tal falls silent, contemplating these last words from his master. 

“Tal, what is the artifact that you wrote about in your paper? Why is it important?” she asks suddenly.

He takes a deep breath. “It’s called the _Asundrance_ , or at least that’s what the old tongue roughly translates it as. Supposedly, it could bring the power of the light over the darkness. Nobody is sure how it works; supposedly it will separate the light from the dark—-giving ascendance of one over the other, by severing the connection.”

She knits her brows together. “Couldn’t it bring an end to the light side as well?”

He nods after a moment. “That’s the theory. It’s possible that whichever is more powerful at the time would be able to stave off the effects of that splitting, the loss of dependence.” He looks away. “Some texts say that the artifact could actually cause the end of life as we know it, not just the light and darkness of the Force.”

“Wonderful,” Ti says dryly. “How come I’ve never heard of this before?”

“There’s a strong belief, including by the Jedi Council, that it never existed. The conspiracy theorists might say that’s the perfect way to conceal it.”

“What does it look like?” Ti asks after a moment of thought.

“No one knows. According to the texts, it might take many different forms. Or none at all.”

Ti breathes in and out. “I’m reluctant to go off on some damn fool quest with Marek.” She smiles at him. “What do you think, Tal?”

He feels his eyes widen at the trust; at the realization that she is actually asking his opinion. He looks down, then up into her violet eyes. “I’d like to continue, Master Ti,” he says “if for nothing else than to prove that it doesn’t exist.”

She turns back to look out over the valley. He walks closer to her; to her side. “What if it does? It could be dangerous, especially if the Sith are resurgent. We could expose it to them.”

“What if they’re already looking, my master?” he whispers. 

Ti closes her eyes. She has no ready answer.

**The Present**

Kento Mallie reaches out towards Lorhena’s cheek. He stops an instant before his gloved hands touch her skin. She smiles softly; reaches up and takes his hand in hers. She pulls her other hand up and slowly begins to take the glove off of that hand. He closes his eyes as their skin touches. He takes a deep breath as she lifts his hand to her cheek. He marvels at the softness of his memory.

She is real.

“I’ve missed this, Kento,” Lorhena says warmly.

He feels his eyebrows raise, his blue eyes opening and fixing on her. He steels himself. “Really?” he asks. “You certainly didn’t try to find me. It’s not like I was hidden away on a jungle world.”

He sees her dark eyes flare with brief anger, then calm—no, soften. “I know. But I had to make sure our son was protected. The Jedi would’ve taken him from us, if I hadn’t stayed away.”

Kento is silent for several moments. Lorhena closes her eyes and leans into his palm. His eyes widen as he sees the wetness under her eyes. He reaches up with his thumb and brushes the tears away. 

“Where is our son, Lorhena?” he asks. “I want to meet him.”

She smiles. “He’s probably closer than you think.”

His eyes track back towards the Imperial base. He shakes his head at the thought. “We have to leave, Lorhena. There’s an Inquisitor here. I don’t want to lose you again to the Empire.”

Lorhena places her hand on the chest plate of the half-armor. “I don’t fear anything from him. I don’t fear anything from the Empire. He won’t hurt us.”

Kento reaches down and kisses her. “You can’t discount them—or the Inquisitor. You have to live. You have to live for our son.”

She shakes her head. “The Empire has already taken him from me. I’m very close to finding what I’ve been looking for. Something that has kept me hidden for the last dozen years or so.”

Kento clinches his teeth. “Yeah. It’s something that kept me from finding you. I’ve been looking for you—especially since the Jedi died.”

She moves her hand up from his chest, then back down to the rank plaque. “One might think that your choice of employment would entail you killing me if you found me,” she says dryly. 

He shakes his head. “I was expected to join ISB. If I hadn’t left CorSec, I would’ve probably fallen under suspicion myself. Yularen was very insistent, as was the Diktat.”

After a moment, she nods. “I understand. There’s still some risk, if we don’t find the Artifact.”

“What is this thing, Lorhena?”

She turns away from him, her eyes on the horizon. He finally notices that the village is still tremoring; its inhabitants are still alarmed and running around. “Something that might turn the tide,” she whispers. 

“Something that might allow me to destroy the ones who wronged the Jedi.”

He closes his eyes as his fear rises once again. His fear for her, as well as for their unseen child.

**The Past**

Ti shoves past the bright, luminescent trees and walks up to Lorhena Marek. The human Jedi Master turns, her blue eyes unreadable in the early evening light. Both Masters stand there staring at one another, waiting on the other to speak. 

Ti shoves herself off of the cliff. “You lied to me,” she says quietly. Her quiet voice manages to camouflage her roiling emotions at this betrayal.

Marek says nothing, merely turns back to her contemplation of the trees. Ti can feel the searching waves of her Force-sense reaching out to the wild. 

Ti is able to maintain her calm, for all of sixty seconds. She huffs impatiently, then reaches out and places her hand on Marek’s shoulder. She pulls, less than forcefully, but more than gently. She completes the pull, then drops her hand as Marek faces her. Lorhena’s face grows thunderous, until she sees Ti’s own now controlled anger in her eyes. 

“I did. I didn’t feel like you would come if I didn’t. You’re just as narrow-minded as the other members of the Council,” Marek says. 

Ti feels her brow markings raise, nearly to the level of her headdress. “Never been accused of being narrow-minded,” she replies dryly. “Maybe by those who peddle unmitigated bullshit to me and call it meatloaf.”

Lorhena’s own sculpted eyebrows rise at the unfamiliar language from Ti. Ti briefly wonders if her padawan’s unfiltered Corellian inflection has influenced her. _Next I’ll be talking slower and using a crooked grin to get what I want from people_. She hopes that Marek doesn’t see the slight head shake and smile.

That same drawling voice intrudes into her mind, through the training bond. _Oh, don’t blame me for something you already possess, my master. I’ve seen you work your magic on others with that serene smile and beautiful accent_ , her mind-Croft says.

She pushes his bond-thoughts from her mind, strengthening her mental shields as she returns her attention to Lorhena Marek. Her eyes widen as she sees Lorhena’s eyes take on a slightly bent cast as she begins to speak again. “I’ve been looking for this for years, Shaak,” she says, her voice growing insistent. Insistent, but not quite angry.

“Yes. But why should the Jedi be interested in an artifact that only a few people know about? One that’s never been proven to exist, outside of a despot’s rambling writings and some obscure Jedi texts.”

Marek’s eyes take on a more fanatical gaze. “That’s the Council talking. They don’t want us to know—” she starts. 

“Lorhena,” Ti says, “you do realize how you sound? You’re not exactly making your case. Have you ever thought, that if the Council didn’t want us to know something or find something, that there might be a good reason for it? That it might be hidden for a reason? What makes you think that this _Asundrance_ wouldn’t consume you?”

“We need it now, more than ever. If the Sith are resurgent—”

“Then maybe we don’t need to help them find it,” Ti finishes for her. She touches Marek’s shoulder, this time without any weight. “We should be mindful of attachments to things, as well as unhealthy ones to people. They can be just as deadly.” She takes a deep breath. “Against my better judgement, Tal has asked that we continue.” She grins, making sure her predator’s incisors are visible. “He wants to disprove you.”

Lorhena’s face relaxes into a warm smile. “He’s a good historian. He’s so skeptical.” She reaches up and closes her hand on Ti’s, on her shoulder. “But, he has that tiny bit of a dreamer in him—a dreamer who wants to believe.”

They stand there for several moments. Finally, Ti lifts their hands from Marek’s shoulders. She maintains a light grip on the warmer hand. She keeps her smile on her face, but her voice is hard as she speaks. 

“He’d better be safe in this little quest, Lorhena.”

After a moment, Marek nods, unable to meet her gaze.


	14. The enhaloed calm of everlasting Motherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As the others turn to go, Lyndia drops into a seat. Tussie, her oversized lorca, pads in on her six legs and lays down beside her. Lyndia focuses on Tussie’s absorption; her heartrate calms as she is able to close her resonance. Something that had taken years for her to accomplish, ever since she had been diagnosed with her illness._
> 
> _She closes her eyes at the quiet in her mind and heart._

Lyndia Gorlute opens her eyes and moves her hands away from Bryne Covenant’s cheek. She takes a deep breath and pulls the sheet up over his chest. She looks over at the other healer—the one of the body. Sina Faygan’ii shares her look, as she makes sure that the monitor is hooked up correctly and working. Without a word, they turn and walk out into the common area. 

Nola Vorserrie rises from the couch where Phygus Baldrick and yet another slicer, who Nola had introduced as Ano Lessi, are working on various datapads. She raises her eyebrow at the two healers, her hand on her hip. The other fidgets with a dangling fringe from her Zeltron-style business suit coat. Lyndia smiles as Phygus reaches up and seizes the busy hand and places it gently between both of his own. Nola looks down at him and smiles briefly, as he releases it. She crosses both arms over her chest. Her lips are pursed, adding to the air of expectant energy. Her dark eyes, while matching that look, are filled with an expression other than waiting. 

An expression of resigned pain and worry. Lyndia crosses over to her and takes the younger woman’s wrists in her hands. She doesn’t pry the arms apart; he merely holds them, allowing her warmth to seep into the skin. She opens her resonance a crack. Nola’s expression doesn’t change, nor does her stance, but Lyndia can feel her shoulders loosen, even with the slight connection. Lyndia sees her chin quiver, as if fighting the need to smile. 

Sina moves close to them both. “No-no, your med-droid was right to put him in bacta as a precaution. But I can’t find anything physically wrong with him. I’ll look forward to Dr. Hegridhara’s assessment as well. I think that if there’s anything wrong with his body, between the two of us, we can find it.”

The corridor door to the room opens. Lyndia’s eyes fall on a tall figure with features concealed by a brown, white, and blue scarf. She starts, as a memory stirs at the sight of the blue and white lekku at the bottom of the scarf, as well as the tall protrusions at the top. She relaxes as she sees that the protrusions are much shorter, as are the lekku, than of her memory. It is the eyes over the scarf that tell her that this is not the serene huntress of her nearly two-decades old recollection. They are a brilliant blue, rather than the violet of Shaak Ti. Her eyes widen as Sina moves over to the younger woman and embraces her. 

The young woman reaches up and pulls her scarf open, allowing it to fall on her shoulders. Sina lifts her hands to her cheeks. The visitor smiles, reaches down and kisses the healer. Their eyes speak of shared adventures and trials. 

“I see you got the message on the change of plans,” Sina says. 

The newcomer’s smile widens. “Yeah. We were already thinking that he needed a mind-healer; we figured somebody would suggest this. One different hyperspace route and we could’ve gone either way.”

Sina backs off, allowing the newcomer to nod at Phygus and Ano. Nola stands there, still expectantly. She closes her eyes, then walks over, taking the Togruta in her arms. They are almost of a height; their cheeks touch as they hold each other tightly. Lyndia turns away, as they are whispering to each other, their eyes closed. 

She focuses on two additional newcomers. A young human woman—almost impossibly so—stands next to a tall Pantoran woman, her face bereft of the tattoos that seem to mark any event in their lives. They are both dressed in comfortable shipboard clothing and are well armed. 

The Togruta opens her eyes and gazes at Lyndia. She smiles and nods. “I’m Jana,” she says, holding her hand out. Lyndia smiles and pulls her into her own embrace. 

“I’m Lyndia. I’ll be helping Bryne with his mind and his heart. I leave the body and his physical heart to this love,” she says, pointing to Sina. 

Jana nods after a moment. She grins at Sina. “I’ve been under her care a bit,” she says. Lyndia smiles at the emphasis on the word.

“You made good time, sis,” Nola says. She looks at the other two. “Of course, these two reckless drivers probably had something to do with it.”

“Not everybody drives like my gran, No-no,” the youngest, the human, says with a irrepressible grin.

“Yeah, well, Junior. You’ve only got a learner’s permit, so I wouldn’t talk,” the Pantoran adds. 

“Nola doesn’t even have that,” Jana and Junior both say in unison.

Lyndia feels the warmth among them all as their quiet laughter and snark rises, leavened by uncertainty between the Pantoran and Junior. An uncertainty of each other, a new, uneasy relationship, capped with an even newer occasional intimacy. Her mind-healer’s quick analysis—almost automatic, now, detects that same intimacy in the emotions of all four women—coupled with deep concern for the man lying in the next room.

Jana looks at the others, then at Lyndia and Sina. “I’d like to be alone with him for a bit. Something was bothering him before I left. I’d like to see if I can glean anything from him.”

Lyndia looks at her. She had not seen the woman before, when Covenant had been here helping Shyla Merricope heal, but had felt the warmth and light coming from the old ship. She’d not thought much of it, so engrossed as she was in trying to heal Shyla. She had used those emotions from the lovemaking, gathered and refocused in her mind-healing efforts. She makes a decision. “I think that it might be best if I’m in there with you. I haven’t been able to make a full assessment; I don’t know what’s going on with him, but I do detect a strong bit of emotional disruption in him.”

Jana smiles, holds up her hand. “I know, Doctor,” she says. “But I have a connection with him—not just the physical and the emotional. I might be able to help.”

Lyndia takes a deep breath, making as if to argue. She suddenly remembers a tiny burble in the emotions of the two in the ship. Her mind recalls the memory of the last time she had felt it, less restrained in the past. She sees Shaak Ti smiling at her, along with her companion—the ginger-haired one that had made such an impression on her brother Jaten. She releases her breath and nods. 

“I’ve had some experience with those connections, Jana,” she says. “I’ll be just outside the door, if you need anything, love.” 

She sees Jana’s eyes widen at the endearment. She nods and turns to walk in.

Lyndia focuses on the others. “I think the rest of you should go and leave her to it. I can feel your worry and love for both of them. I think she needs some clarity to do what she needs to do.”

As the others turn to go, Lyndia drops into a seat. Tussie, her oversized lorca, pads in on her six legs and lays down beside her. Lyndia focuses on Tussie’s absorption; her heartrate calms as she is able to close her resonance. Something that had taken years for her to accomplish, ever since she had been diagnosed with her illness. 

She closes her eyes at the quiet in her mind and heart.

* * *

Meglann follows Lassa out of the room. As they walk out into the bright sun, on the way to the _Opportunity_ , she watches Lassa’s face for any sign of hope. The Captain’s face remains blank. She stops and turns towards Meglann. 

“What?” she asks, her bronze eyes narrowing. 

“Do you think that Lyndia can help Bryne?” Meglann asks. “I’m not sure about all this stuff that the Zeltrons do. I mean, it’s pretty powerful stuff, but can it heal anyone?”

She sees Lassa’s lips quirk into a slight smile. “Oh, so you’ve had a bit of experience with that ‘powerful stuff’? Do tell, Junior.”

Meglann feels her face grow hot as Lassa turns and starts to walk again. Just before they round a corner, a more focused, intense version of the emotional overspill flows into Meglann’s senses. She grins at the familiarity of that signature. They turn the corner and see a battered old _Consular_ class ship with a wide green stripe circling its otherwise haze-gray paint. She stops as Dani Faygan comes into view. 

Meglann feels the temperature drop as Lassa stops. The smile on Dani’s face fades as her eyes narrow and fall on Lassa. Even without the falling warmth of Dani’s resonance, Meglann can feel the anger suddenly rolling off of both women. 

Dani’s left hand moves behind her, to the back of her belt. Meglann knows that a Mandalorian blaster, a legacy from the late wife of the man lying in the med-bed, rests there. She glances at Lassa, sees her right hand move to the crossdraw rig of her own weapon. 

Meglann holds her breath as Lassa and Dani stare at each other. She sees a tiny red-furred being move past them. She catches his eye as he smiles at her. Hegridhara, one of the noted physicians in the galaxy, shares her eyeroll at the standoff next to her. He pauses only long enough to touch her hand as his medical bag comes around the corner on its repulsors. Drall and bag present an incongruous sight as they move out of the landing revetment.

Meglann turns and stares at the two women. She grits her teeth at their matching thunderous expressions. She reaches down to the large blaster, moving her right thumb to the inside of the weapon, the side against her leg. She visualizes her objective from the hours of practice under the watchful eye of a very large, but patient clonetrooper and his equally watchful daughter. Her thumb and forefinger touch, then move the selector switch from ‘full’ to ‘stun’.

She wonders if she is going to have to throw down on the pair, if she would survive the attempt to stun them into submission. She shakes her head again, takes a breath, and moves between them. She feels their eyes move to her, in varying degrees of anger. She continues her move between them. They are close enough, in each other’s space, that she is touching both of them with her shoulders.

“What the hell’s going on here?” she asks. 

Neither woman responds; they merely continue to shift their thunderous looks between each other and her for interposing herself between them. 

“You know that this _whatever it is_ isn’t going to help Bryne—or Ahsoka. They don’t need this bullshit,” she says, an edge to her voice. 

_Well, I’ve got their attention_ , Meglann thinks as their eyes focus entirely on her. She doesn’t back down. “I’ve heard how both of you love these two, with various ways of expressing it,” she says, looking at Lassa. “This ain’t proving it to me,” she says.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, _Ensign_ ,” Lassa replies, turning slightly to face Meglann. Meglann feels Dani shift around as well. An instant later, she takes a deep breath as she feels a warm hand on the skin of her side, just above her hips, under her shirt and jacket. In spite of the warmth, she forges ahead. 

“Oh, yeah? What makes you think that, Rhayme?” she asks. “I’ve known and watched them both for the last year, while you’ve been playing pirate in the Rim. I think I know them pretty well. Maybe not better than you, but just as well.” She looks down, trying to fight the tears. “I’ve seen them hurt and laugh together. I’ve held them in my arms at night and in the day as they struggle with how they feel, versus what they have to do.”

She breaks off, closing her eyes and concentrating on the feel of Dani’s warmer skin on her her side. Lassa, for an instant, softens her expression, then reaches up and touches Meglann’s cheek. The moment passes; Lassa’s baleful look returns. 

“Stay the fuck out of my way, Faygan,”she says. With that, she turns and walks slowly towards her own ship. 

Meglann turns to Dani, lifting the crimson hand from her skin and squeezing it in an easy grip. She stares at the Zeltron, waiting. 

Dani smirks. “I’m surprised that she knew my name,” she says dryly. Her eyes widen as she sees that Meglann has not relaxed her expression.

“I’ll ask again Dani,” she says. “What the hell is that?”

Dani’s own eyes harden again. “You’ll have to ask the psychopath,” she replies. She slumps, her eyes tracking to the manicured walkway. “It goes back to the Clone War—towards the end. I was backing Bryne up on her ship. He was using his, uh, charms to persuade Lassa to get other pirate captains to take Sep convoys.” At the emphasis on the word, Meglann fights to keep her expression even. “I stayed undercover as a gunner’s mate. Figured it was the best way if the shit hit the engine intakes.

“Long story short, she suspected something. She had her crew search my stuff; they found my credentials. Even longer story short, we managed to stab each other.” She looks at Meglann, then at her blaster. “Bryne—Tal as he was known then did what it looked like you were about to do. He stunned us both, got us patched up and had his padawan take me to Corellia.”

“Seems like a stupid thing to hold a grudge over,” Meglann observes. “Is there something else?”

“Yeah,” Dani replies. “I don’t know. You’ve probably figured out that our Lady of the Half-Opened shirt doesn’t like not being in control, especially on her own ship. Maybe if I’d come clean after he told her he was a Jedi, we might be enjoying a nice long friendly fuck right now, instead of the threat of death.” She gives a hooded look. “Maybe all three of us would.”

Meglann rolls her eyes, barely managing to suppress _those_ thoughts. “I don’t think either one of you knows anymore what the hell that you’re both angry about.”

A smile grows again over Dani’s beautiful features; a smile that Meglann recognizes in its mischief. “Maybe we’re both having too much fun keeping the whole thing alive,” she says. 

Meglann turns away. She feels her arms go up in the air in frustration as she stalks off.

Behind her, Dani’s smile turns thoughtful.

* * *

Ahsoka feels Covenant’s strong heartbeat against her lekku. The rise and fall of his chest, where her head lays is the only reassurance that she has that he lives. The tricolored light in her mind, usually an indicator of his presence, or at least of their connection in the Force, has shrunk to a pinpoint, as if one small part of a chain of fiber-optic lights. She feels herself drifting off—drifting to the recent past. A memory of lying next to him, basking in his warmth on a frigid desert night, near a settlement on Jakku. 

She closes her eyes. She remembers his painful dreams, his inability to wake up from the memories of his time in the Clone War—the ones that he had never shared with her at the time that they had occurred. She had known the risk of the technique that she had remembered from Plo Koon’s instruction. A risk that they both could have been lost in the mists of his memories and his pain. 

A risk she hadn’t hesitated to take for him. She rises up and gently kisses his cheek. As she does, she sees a tiny bit of a flicker under his eyelids. She lifts her hand up and places it on his forehead, her fingers running lightly in his gray hair. She turns and looks at the monitor screen next to the bed. The heartrate and respiration lines are steady, in the normal range for a human. Her eyes narrow as she looks at the brain activity, steeling herself for the readings she suspects she will see. 

Her eyes widen; she lifts her hand from his forehead and moves the thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. After a moment she removes them, takes a second look at the readings.

Brain activity is within normal ranges for a human. A tiny part of her brain snorts as she hears his warm drawl in her mind. _Ain’t saying much, Runt._

She focuses again on his eyelids. There is no movement after that initial flicker. She replaces her hand on his warmer skin, this time on his cheek. She remembers the last time she had touched him, her eyes staring into his, an instant before they turned from each other. She brings her other hand up to his opposite cheek. She closes her eyes, searching her memory for the time spent observing his experiences during the Clone War. The ones that had shaped him; they had made him into the man that she had been willing to risk all for his dreams. _No,_ she thinks, _he was probably that before the War_. She smiles. _The foundation was solid_. 

Ahsoka reaches down and touches his lips with hers, then rests her forehead against his. She makes her decision. She drops her hands down and pulls the covers from his chest. She takes a deep breath and runs her fingers along his sides. She grins at the rippling of the skin under her touch. She moves her hands under him and lifts him into her arms. She lies back down, pulling him to his side to face her. 

As she has for nearly two decades, since she had taken her first controlled touch to that mystical energy field, she opens her mind to the Force. She reaches out, aiming for that tiny pinprick of purple, gold, and dark green. 

Another presence makes itself known in her senses. She feels a familiar warmth in her core—familiar, yet different. She turns and looks at the newcomer. 

“I think that you’re about to do something stupid, Jana,” Lyndia Gorlute says. 

Ahsoka clinches her teeth, pushing the warmth away from her. She closes her eyes against the sensation. She feels her eyebrow marking rise at the definite difference between Lyndia’s and Dani’s resonances. She shakes her head. “You need to leave, Lyndia,” she says, forcing her voice to be hard.

“I don’t think what you’re about to try is going to turn out the way that you think it is, love,” Lyndia says. 

Ahsoka sighs and allows Bryne to slip from her arms. She turns and stands up, facing Lyndia. Her eyes widen at the large beast standing next to her, looking at Ahsoka with (she imagines) narrowed blue-green eyes. She finds her voice, keeping it soft. “How would you know, Lyndia?”

“Because I know what you are. I might even know who you are—or who you were,” she says. Lyndia holds her hand up before Ahsoka can say anything. “Peace, Jana,” she continues, keeping the pseudonym. 

She walks over and sits on the bed. She reaches out and takes Ahsoka’s hand in hers. Lyndia pulls her down beside her. Their legs touch. “I’ve done a lot of study about your family.” At that she looks directly into Ahsoka’s eyes, gray meeting blue. “From when I last helped them. Long before the war.”

Ahsoka settles in next to her, but reaches out and lifts Bryne’s hand and lays it in her lap. Lyndia smiles at the gesture. 

“There were two Jedi who came here to capture a murderer. One of us. I helped them a bit. Their names were Shaak Ti and Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Ahsoka closes her eyes as the pain—mostly suppressed now rises again. She opens her eyes and sees Lyndia giving her a knowing look. “I know them,” she whispers. 

Lyndia nods. “I did a great deal of research for my thesis. I managed to get some stuff not normally found because of some, well, issues that arose while they were here, to assist them. I saw a footnote in the document that mentioned something about what I think you’re about to do.” She touches Ahsoka’s cheek. “I can feel the pain rolling off of you in waves. It’s been there since I met you, but it really started again when I mentioned their names.”

Ahsoka is silent. After a moment, she speaks. “Obi-Wan was my master’s master.” She looks down, remembering. “He was like a second master to me.”

Lyndia nods. “I met him a couple of times. He and my brother grew close while he was here.” She smiles softly, her expression speaking volumes. She shakes her head. “And Ti?”

Ahsoka looks at Bryne. “She was his master. She taught us both in the Hunt culture of my people.” She touches the gunbelt piled on the table across from the bed. Lyndia’s eyes follow her hands on the teeth inset into the leather. “They’re dead, Lyndia,” she says. She reaches up and wipes her eyes. “You should forget anything you know. You don’t want to draw any more attention to the Land of Song.”

Lyndia’s eyes widen at the use of the other name for this world. “I hold our secrets—all secrets dear, Jana,” she says. “They’re part of our world’s secrets as well. All of us privy to them will die before betraying them.” She reaches over and kisses Ahsoka, her lips soft. “You already know some of our secrets, Ahsoka,” she whispers against the lekku. Ahsoka starts at the use of her given name, rather than the alias.

“So why shouldn’t I try this? I’ve done it before.”

“Because there’s something more going on here than Force nightmares,” the healer says. “I got a glimpse of it in his emotional signature when you were fucking, when you were here last. Something different. Something that he can’t tell the truth of. Something that could be external and could kill you if you tried to touch it.” She pauses for a breath-and-a-half. “It feels like an entirely different emotional signature.”

“I’ve got to try, Lyndia,” Ahsoka says. She tries to keep the hint of desperation that she feels from her voice.

Lyndia reaches over and touches Bryne’s forehead. “I know, sweetie. It’s why I came in. I haven’t had time to scan him—to examine him. But I might be able to provide a sort of anchor to you, if you can lock onto my resonance when you touch him and the Force.”

Ahsoka gives her a skeptical look. “Does this mean that we’re going to have to—” She stops, unable on this world to even give voice to the word.

Lyndia laughs. “Ordinarily as part of the healing, we might. It gives me something to project to help find the source of his pain and help soothe, if not heal. This is uncharted territory. I’ll settle for locking on anyone else’s emotions.”

“You mean we’ve got to wait on somebody else to—” Ahsoka starts. 

“You can say the word, Ahsoka. Put your top teeth on your bottom lip and start the ‘ _forn_ ’ sound—”

“Okay, smartass. I can say the word. Repeatedly if I have to,” Ahsoka says with a Smirk. “So how long will it take Dani to find someone to say ‘hi’ to?” At that moment, Ahsoka feels the warmth move outward from her groin.

“How about now?” Lyndia asks as the sensations rise. “Why do you think it’s Dani?”

“Long experience,” Ahsoka replies. “I’m probably sure of the others, as well, just not sure who actually instigated it.”

Ahsoka and Lyndia rise, then lie on either side of Bryne. Lyndia reaches out and brings them both into her arms. Ahsoka starts to retreat into herself, once again opening herself to the Force. 

Her mind screams at the intensity held in that pinprick of light.

Tussie lies down and watches the three of them as they seek one’s dreams.

* * *

The woman once known as Maris Brood opens her eyes as a member of the Inner Guard walks into the room. As the Force recedes from her sense, she stares balefully at the elite guard. “What?” she asks. 

“Was it truly necessary to kill the garrison commander?” the modulated voice asks. 

“Yes,” she says simply. “He failed the Emperor and was obstructing our path. I removed the obstruction.”

“The auto-tribunal would’ve probably sentenced him to a blaster squad for the demerits he had incurred.” There is a wry tone heard in the concealed voice. “Probably something more painful for the sheer number of them.”

“I felt that something more swift was needed,” Nulla replies. “As I recall, ‘Nulla’ comes before ‘Quarta’,” she finishes. “Leave me and do as you’re told. Find any trace of the Inquisitorial pup.” She stares at the Guard-Adept. “We’re not just expensive minders. We dispense the Emperor’s Justice. There are only ten of you, plus me. We are like the fingers of the Emperor’s hands. She allows a smile to grow on her face. “We can probably make do with only nine fingers, just as well.”

After a moment, the Guard dips her head and says, “As you say, Commander.” Captain Quarta turns away, leaving Nulla to her peace. 

Maris closes her eyes, attempting to touch the Force again. She only sees an amorphous cloud in her mind’s eye; a cloud tinged with at least two familiar signatures. She sighs as the cloud dissolves, leaving only a blank slate. She picks up her twin side-handled lightsabers and slides them into the carrier resting on the crimson cuirass. She lifts the armor and pulls it on over her brief top. Her short, hooded robe is next. 

As she rises from her kneeling position, her mind retreats unbidden to the feel of Coruscanti permacrete under her knees. She feels a gloved hand on her shoulder; sees the red-trimmed armor of the Coruscant Guard cutting into her vision. She stares at the young human woman being dragged, fighting every step over to a large wall in the undercity. Her eyes lock with Maris’s as the clonetroopers place her against the structure. The young Agri-Corps member breaks the gaze, looking around at the remnants of several other of her fellows lying at her feet. Maris looks also; a hidden part of her brain marvels at what a single volley from a platoon of blasters can do to the body’s structure. 

Her eyes lock with the woman’s as the burst of laser fire cuts into her hearing. As if watching from a great distance, she sees the Guard commander walk over to what remains, pulling one of his pistols and firing a single, unnecessary shot into the area at the top of the mass. 

Maris feels the pressure of the gloved hands on her shoulders, pulling her from her knees. She is the last. She shakes both sets of hands off and raises her head. She walks calmly to the wall, carefully avoiding the leavings of her fellow Agri-Corps members. She turns and places her back to the wall, raising her eyes to the faceless mass. A quick command and she stares into the muzzles of near four dozen blasters. The mind of an Agri-Corps worker, trained to make do with what they have, idly thinks of the waste of that many blasters being used to slaughter one ex-padawan at a time. She shakes the thought away, hearing another barked command, seeing the blasters settle into their aiming points. 

She braces herself for the blast, not even caring if it hurts. She sees Fox start to lower his hand.

“Stop,” comes a quiet voice. She looks to the source of the voice. A hooded, bent old man stands to the side, several crimson-robed guards standing around him. Fox lowers his hand; the troopers lower their weapons. 

“I sense that I can use this one, Commander. Bring her to my shuttle.” With that, the wizened, almost reptilian figure turns and walks away.

Nulla comes back to herself, remembering Palpatine’s words to her in the shuttle. _I sense great things in you, little one. I sense pain, envy, anger—things that I can use._

She suddenly senses the amorphous cloud returning, coalescing into those two distinct signatures. One look at her with the usual disappointment in her dark blue eyes at her attempts to master arcane skills.

The other’s violet eyes are filled with sorrow and regret. _Compassion_. 

Nulla, once known as Maris Brood, steels herself against that compassion.


	15. That wounds your life; I see you humbled to adore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She pulls Lyndia against her, squeezing her tightly. “Look after him, Lyndia,” she says._
> 
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> _She reaches down from their embrace and kisses him, her hands moving to his cheeks, then his chest. She turns to go. Lyndia pulls her into her arms again. Ahsoka feels her warm hand move into her unzipped top. Lyndia places her hand, with the flat palm against her heart. The most important organ, Ahsoka thinks. After a moment, Lyndia pulls her hand free and closes Ahsoka’s top. “I will, Ahsoka,” she whispers. “May the Force be with you.”_

The **Past**

Shaak Ti watches as Lorhena Marek stops and consults her tracomp. She turns, seeing Ti and Croft watching her curiously. Marek reaches up to the straps of her pack and eases it from her shoulders.

It had been several hours since they had set out from the place where Ti had finally agreed to allow Croft and her to join Marek’s little side quest. She looks up at the dimming daylight playing over and through the brightly colored and translucent flora.

Ti turns back to Marek and Croft. Taliesin is watching Marek reach down into her bag. Shaak moves over and pulls out a small bag of jerky and offers it to her padawan. Croft is mesmerized by what Marek pulls out from her pack. So mesmerized that he ignores the spicy _akar_ jerky offered to him. Ti follows his eyes to what the other Jedi Master has pulled from concealment. She grins to herself. _Must be something major if it takes his mind from spiced meat_ , she thinks with only a tiny bit of irony.

She feels her brow markings rise at what Marek pulls out. A small gray and red stone tablet rests in a small towel in Marek’s hands. Shaak sees Croft’s eyes widen.

“Where did you get that?” he asks sharply. After a glare from Marek, he begrudgingly adds, “Master.”

“What is it, Taliesin?” Ti asks.

He turns, stares at her as if seeing her for the first time. “It’s an artifact that’s been lost to the Jedi for centuries.” His tone sharpens. “I’m hoping it’s just a good copy.” He turns his gaze on the other Master.

Lorhena shrugs her shoulders. “You go with what makes you feel all warm and fuzzy at night, boy,” she says calmly.

Ti feels her anger spike at the condescending tone. “Marek, if you want us to keep participating, you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head towards my padawan. I think his own studies and accomplishments speak for himself.” She feels her teeth clinch. “Or is it the fact that I chose him as a padawan before you could?”

She instantly regrets her words as she feels the stab of incredulity through her training bond. Taliesin’s green eyes move from one Master to the other. Ti stares at Marek, who is looking at her with an unfathomable expression. She feels the human Master’s anger rise as well as her own.

In a flash, the anger is gone, replaced by an almost eerie calm from Marek. She nods, relaxing her shoulders. She looks at Croft. “Point taken, Master Ti,” she says, “Taliesin, this is the original Wordstone. Or at least one of them. As you know, there were purported to be so many different ones, all saying the same thing. I’m hoping to use this one to help us find the Asundrance. I think that it’s imperative that we find it before any enemies of the Jedi do.” She reaches out and places her hand on his shoulder, then moves it up to his cheek. Taliesin looks down, then seeks Ti’s eyes.

After a moment, Ti nods and smiles encouragingly. _Whatever you think is best, my apprentice_ , she sends through the bond.

“That may be, Master Marek,” he says evenly. Ti swells with pride at the maturity in his voice. “But we’re sworn to protect the past of the Jedi, not just use them as a means to an end. If we don’t, we’re no better than those we stand to oppose.”

After a moment of staring at each other, Marek nods. “Very well. It’ll be given to Jocasta Nu when we return.”

The atmosphere lightens, if only in a tiny increment. “So what does this object tell us, Lorhena?” Shaak asks.

“There are two types of ancient sites here, Shaak,” Marek replies. “A Red Temple and a Gray. One of these will hold the key to the Asundrance’s location”

“Which one should we look for?” Ti asks.

Lorhena smiles with at least a tiny bit of warmth after her rebuke by her companions. “The Asundrance is neither Sith nor Jedi, Ashla nor Bogan, light nor dark.” She turns to a right angle from their path and points towards the foliage. “I think we should head towards the Gray Temple—the balance. There, we’ll find the Asundrance, or at least another clue.”

Ti looks at Croft. In the few years that she has known him; the years of studying his expressions and his emotions, she can see the healthy dose of skepticism in his eyes, as well as the set of his shoulders. “What do you think, Taliesin?” she asks.

He takes a long moment to answer. “That’s one theory,” he says. His eyes widen at his own dry tone. He turns to Lorhena. “With all due respect, Master,” he says. “I think that interpretation might be a fallacy. For one thing, it’s only a myth—one that’s never been found in any supporting texts—the idea of a Gray Jedi. A Jedi may have aspects of both, but at their heart, they’re either light or dark, in their core tenets. Plus, according to Xim and his chroniclers, the beings that created the Asundrance were masters of obfuscation and misdirection. Some scholars think that they might’ve been the first Shadows.”

Lorhena stares at him. She shakes her head. “Taliesin, I think that you’re wrong. There’s some debate as to the substantiation of the chronicler that wrote those passages. Stentu was later discredited in other writings by previous chronicles and even newer ones. I don’t believe this is an obfuscation. As for the Gray Jedi, you might be looking at one. You may find yourself believing in them as you move more deeply into the Shadows.”

Ti sees him struggling with his response. She sends as much encouragement as she can to him through the bond. _Your instincts are good, my child-of-the-Hunt. Use them._

She feels him start to reply, then just as quickly, the doubts rise. She closes her eyes as he nods. “Perhaps, Master Marek,” he says. Without a word, he turns towards the path she had indicated.

Ti’s heart sinks at his loss of confidence. She shakes her head. _He’s only eighteen years old, facing a Master with twenty more years of experience._

As she follows Marek and Croft, Shaak Ti has the foreboding sense that something is watching them.

Something large.

* * *

Ahsoka comes back into herself as her visions fade from Bryne’s mind. She had only found flashes—flashes of fecund jungle, spiced with a hint of her own failure, as well as that of someone else.

She opens her eyes, the remnants of a memory disappearing with her eyelids. She focuses on the memory, bringing back from the depths of time. She sees an old Republic tank explode in a bright flash. A explosion that had sent shockwaves through her much smaller, much younger body, as she had been standing on top of it only moments before.

As the lartie climbs into the air, she focuses on a place just west and north of the line of previously unseen B1s and B2s. A small collection of ruins can be seen. As her mind’s eye locks on the white stone, mixed in with a wall of vegetation, she sees her hunt-brother’s figure standing in front of a bright light. A light that seems to grow, swallowing everything in its path.

The stone around him is not the white of her memory, but gray.

Ahsoka’s eyes come fully open, the warm jungle and its bright colors and translucent foliage fading in the warm light of Zel. She feels her breathing return to normal as the warmth pervades her body, centering her emotions. She looks over to her left, perplexed that she now seems to be between two differing levels of warmth.

Lyndia Gorlute’s eyes open, the black fading from the gray. She sits up. Ahsoka’s eyes widen.

Somehow, at some point during the session, Lyndia had shed her healer’s tunic. She smiles at Ahsoka. “Took a little more focusing to keep you anchored, dear. I could feel so many emotional signatures pulling at you.” She looks down. “Had to take a more active role.”

Ahsoka looks down. She sees that she is still clothed, mostly. Her eyes shift to her right. Bryne still sleeps, his face peaceful and neutral. She rolls her eyes. Except for the a tiny smirk that lifts one side of his mouth. Another memory flashes into her mind, this one more recent.

She remembers opening her eyes and looking over at Bryne. Her eyes widened as she realized that the covers are fully off of his naked body. Her eyes locked on Lyndia Gorlute. The healer smiled at her, holding Bryne tightly against her, her hands on his skin. Ahsoka felt her anger rise for a moment, through the emotions, then realized that this is part of the healing, from a brief description of mind-healing on this beautiful world.

Ahsoka shakes her head as she comes back to the present. The warmer expanse of skin is now standing, pulling on her tunic. She sees Ahsoka looking at her. “I know we do things differently. But I wanted to make sure I held him to us. I didn’t think that channeling the others was keeping him with us.” She touches her palm to Ahsoka’s cheek. “I didn’t think you were staying with us, either.”

Ahsoka nods, still unsure, but knowing that no one on this world would do anything to harm another.

Lyndia smiles at her. “I know what you’re thinking. He assisted in healing Shyla, before you got here. With our people, this type of healing—the use of the resonance and accompanying positive emotions are understood. With he and Shyla, I made sure that they both understood what it entailed, of what the restrictions are. I got signed consent from him to use any techniques to heal him necessary, in case things went south in that healing of Shyla. It’s still good.” She looks down “Might better get one from you, before we go any further, but I think that you and he both understand us better than most.” She looks expectantly at Ahsoka.

Ahsoka stands as well. She shakes her head. “I don’t think I’ve got time. I need to move on this. Something in all of that told me that I don’t have a lot of time, if I’m going to help him.” She takes a deep breath; meets Lyndia’s gaze. “It may be something bigger than just him.” She pulls Lyndia against her, squeezing her tightly. “Look after him, Lyndia,” she says.

She reaches down from their embrace and kisses him, her hands moving to his cheeks, then his chest. She turns to go. Lyndia pulls her into her arms again. Ahsoka feels her warm hand move into her unzipped top. Lyndia places her hand, with the flat palm against her heart. _The most important organ_ , Ahsoka thinks. After a moment, Lyndia pulls her hand free and closes Ahsoka’s top. “I will, Ahsoka,” she whispers. “May the Force be with you.”

Ahsoka nods. On impulse, she touches her lips to Lyndia’s.

* * *

Dilanni the Fearless holds his malespawn tightly to him. He raises his goggles as they start to fog up from the moisture leaking from his eyes.

“I’d thought that I’d lost you, little one,” he says, managing to keep the sobs from his voice.

Geordai smiles against his neck. “I told you I could take care of myself, old man,” he says. Dilanni’s eyes widen at the newfound confidence in his son’s voice.

He snorts and gently cuffs the younger one. “Perhaps I should call you the Fearless now,” he laughs. He touches his son’s cheek again. “Did they hurt you, Geordai?”

“No, Father. Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he replies. Dilanni’s eyes narrow at the non-committal response.

“I’m sorry Dilanni. We had to get out of there quickly. I told the Half-Jedi that I would let her know what I found, when we didn’t find you in the enclosure.”

“It’s alright, Father. The human in the hard shell took me out before the attack. He gave me food and asked a lot of questions.”

“What kind of questions, my spawn?” Dilanni asks.

“About what happened before the bucketfaces took me. About where we saw the Horned One.”

“What did you tell him?”

Geordai takes a sip from his father’s water bottle. He had already drained one; was taking this one more slowly. “I told him that I saw them at the Red Temple, not at the Gray.”

Dilanni bites back a grin at the boy’s common sense. _I’m not too sure if I should be proud of him or scold him for lying_. He notices the boy looking at his feet. “I lied, Father,” he says. “You told me that it’s wrong to lie.”

Dilanni allows himself that pride. “I know, little one. But I think that the person who you lied to might’ve harmed you or some of our friends. I think that the Morals would allow that,” he says.

He watches that sink in. After a moment, Geordai nods.

“So how did you get free?” Dilanni asks.

Geordai stares at him. “The Imperial with the shell let me go. A woman told him to let me go.”

Dilanni feels his heart twist. “Was it the—” he cuts off.

Geordai smiles. “No. It wasn’t the Horned One. She was like the pup—Meg, Meg—” He stops at Dilanni’s grin. “Junior,” he says.

“A human?” Dillani asks, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes. But she had clothing that kind of resembled the Horned One’s. Just more of it.”Geordai falls silent. “She looked strange. Her eyes were kind of crazy. She told him to let me go, that they didn’t need me. That she could find what could save them.”

Dilanni pulls him closer to him. He clucks for the tee-muss and lifts his needle-rifle. Geordai looks mournfully at the weapon.

“I lost my own,” he says. “You gave it to me.”

Dilanni smiles and walks around the tee-muss. Without a word, he lifts Geordai into the saddle. He hands him the needle-rifle. “Maybe it’s time for an adult’s weapon, my son,” he says.

He pulls out a blaster carbine where it is slung behind his back, a gift from the blue pirate. “Maybe I can trade this for a new one. This won’t do much good, hunting tylok.”

As they turn the mount towards the settlement, Dilanni the Fearless, pulls out a small device. He punches the button on it, as the blue pirate, the well-fed one, and the pup had showed him.

He thinks of his Half-Jedi. Somehow he knows she will be returning.

* * *

Meglann walks into the hangar bay. She manages not to blush as Dani touches her hand, interlocking their pinkies for an instant. Her eyes widen at the two women standing next to ramp of the _Draq’stone_. The tallest one smirks at the brief gesture.

The other woman’s look is less amused. Lassa Rhayme stares at them both, her bronze eyes narrowed. She starts to say something, but Nola looks at her. “Let it go, Lassa,” she says. “At least until we get Bryne out of this.”

After a moment, Lassa nods. All four women start at a loud rumbling noise from above. They look up. An old Republic assault shuttle lowers slowly to the floor. Dani smiles at the sight of the old ship, its sable hull settling to the deck.

An even older astromech sits up in the cockpit, his red, green, and white paint job standing out against the black.

Meglann looks at the orange Aurabesh lettering on the side. _The Laughing Beskad_. Her eyes fall on the stylized art of a Mando warrior, a hammer in one hand and leaning on a curved sword in the other.

“Who is that?” she asks.

“J’ohlana Wren-Blackthorn,” Nola answers. She looks down. “Bryne’s late wife. She’s the owner of that ship.

All of them turn as they sense another presence.

Ahsoka Tano stands there, her eyes taking in the ship. Meglann can see her eyes blinking rapidly, as if fighting back tears. She moves immediately towards Ahsoka.

Meglann takes her in her arms. “What’s going on, sweetie?” she asks.

Ahsoka looks at her, then tightens her own embrace on Meglann. “I’m going to finish this.”

Lassa continues to stand off as the others move towards Ahsoka. “Felucia?”

“Yeah,” Ahsoka replies quickly. “A certain little trip into the Force confirmed that this is where all of this is originating from. Something big.”

“Why the antique?” Lassa says, her hand taking in the _Beskad_. “I could have you there quicker than most. Plus you’d have backup.”

Dani rolls her eyes, as Meglann snorts. “I could have you there quicker than that tub, love,” she says. She grins broadly. “The _Opportunity_ probably hasn’t ever recovered from your shitty repair job on her hyperdrive.”

Ahsoka laughs, her eyes turning soft. “As I recall, I made a few adjustments to the Captain’s hyperdrive, as well,” she retorts. She looks at Meglann. “A lot of that going around,” she says to Meglann’s blush.

“Well, both of you just barely kept my interest,” the pirate replies. “In spite of the offer of this twit’s tub, I still think one or both of us should go with you. You’ll need cover.”

Ahsoka shakes her head. “Nope. Gotta do this alone. I don’t want y’all getting caught up in this.”

Meglann can almost hear Nola’s teeth grinding. “Why?” Meglann asks. “Why do you always think you have to charge in by yourself? We’re here for both of you.” She feels her normally sparkling eyes flashing with anger. “Just a few weeks ago, we all Affirmed that we would be there for each other—that we are Links of the Covenant Chain. We’re there for each other.”

Ahsoka’s face falls. “I know. I’d rather have you with me. But this is something that might be bigger than any of us. Something that the Jedi would’ve handled in the past. As you can tell, our bench ain’t too deep right now.” She grins ruefully. “I’m not even sure that I count.”

Meglann sees that Nola continues to stare balefully at her. “Fine. But if we don’t hear from you every goddamned day, we’re coming in with guns blazing,” she says.

Ahsoka pulls free of Meglann and walks over to the Naboo. She pulls the younger woman in her arms. After a moment, Nola relaxes and moves into the embrace. “You’re not my handler anymore, No-no. You’ll have to wait again. I know it’s hard, but I feel better that you’re always there. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you—what mean to me. You bear witness and you’re there to send the world or bring it with you.”

Dani moves in and hugs her as well. After a moment, Lassa curses. She walks up, but cannot bring herself to join the embrace. Meglann sees that Ahsoka nods to her.

As they watch the shuttle rise into the bright sunlight, Meglann turns to the others. “What are we going to do? Are we going to listen?”

“Of course not, my love,” Dani says. “We wouldn’t be ‘us’ if we did.”

“Okay,” Nola says. “What the hell are we going to do?”

Meglann sees Lassa turn away, throwing her hands up. She starts to turn towards the door for _Opportunity’s_ landing area.

A soft voice stops her short. “I might have an answer for that,” Lyndia Gorlute says.

Meglann’s eyes fall on her and her huge furry companion standing in the entrance to the revetment.

“I’ll need all of your help. I may be able to unlock whatever she saw in his Force sense. At least give us an impression of what she might be facing.”

Lassa turns around and walks back over to them. “Through the resonance?”she asks.

Meglann sees Dani and Lyndia’s eyes widen. “What do we have to do?” she asks.

Lyndia grins. “I’ll show you.” Her grin broadens into a smirk. “You’ll all need a lot less clothing.”

Meglann closes her eyes as two resonances come out of ‘standby’ mode.

* * *

Lorhena reaches out and touches Kento Mallie’s hand. They sit in a booth in the small bar in the settlement. She takes a deep breath, looking at what had been a beloved face, years ago on Corellia.

One that could be beloved again, if it will lead her to two things that she desires above all else. She feels the twist in her Force sense; Kento’s face blurs. She drops his hands and places her palms flat on the table. She steadies herself, shoving the nagging buzz at the base of her brain away.

“I know that you want to find this damned artifact,” he says, lifting her hand again. “All I want to do is find our son and find a quiet corner of the galaxy and be a family.”

She smiles at him, then sobers. “I don’t know if we can, love. He’s fallen to the darkness. Even if we might be able to get him away, the minions of the dark will always look for him. Unless we can get the artifact.” She stares into his eyes. “Something I’ve spent nearly a dozen years in the darkness trying to find it. So that I could defeat it.”

He grins, an expression that had caused her heart to flip—had caused her to disdain the strictures against attachment of her Order. “Well, it could be said that I’ve fallen to the darkness. I serve the Empire as well.”

She shakes her head. “I know. But you’re not Force sensitive. It’s not the same.”

He looks down, momentarily at a loss for words. He remains staring at their hands, now both interlinked. “I will do whatever I need to do, love,” he says quietly. “I can commandeer troops. That idiot Major won’t dare refuse my request after his screw-ups.”

His face blurs again. This time it is not just a shift in her Force sense. Her entire world shifts. The world goes red; the edges graying, an instant before a bright white light suffuses her entire vision.

It feels as it consumes her from within.

Kento falls back into focus. He is standing, as are several of the other bar patrons. Unlike Kento, the locals stare in all directions.

“What happened?” Mallie asks.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“It’s like you were in a trance. Then the tremors started again.” He stares at her for a full minute. “It looked like you faded out.”

She ignores his words. “We may need those troopers of yours, Kento,” she says. “To sacrifice them to the beasts that we found the last time I looked for this thing.” She stands. “Come on. I know where to go. Hopefully the boy will follow.”

As they head out, both ignore two hooded figures sitting near the door, unperturbed by the tremors.

Dilanni looks at Geordai. “Come on. We’ll wait for the Half-Jedi. She’ll know which way to go. We will help her find the other Horned One.”

* * *

The Thirteenth Novice stares at the Felucian struggling, his feet kicking in midair. The Novice fights to touch the Force as _something_ presses on his mind. He feels his fist open; the Felucian drops to the ground, next to two of his less lucky fellows. The Inquisitor-Novice drops down to his knees. He is conscious of the the Felucian running away, but can’t pursue. He manages to rise to his feet, but clutches his head against the onslaught.

His mind freezes at another onslaught starts; this one with a different feeling from the continuous battering of the first attack. He senses a Felucian raising one of their primitive weapons. He manages to pull the remnants of his saber. It ignites, sputters, then fully unsheathes. He hurls it, impaling the Felucian as he fires. The Novice feels the dart intersect with his bicep, but plucks it out at almost the same instant. The blade returns to his left hand.

As he checks the slight wound in his arm, another disturbance intrudes into his mind. His pulls a deep breath into his lungs at the slight familiarity of this intrusion. A signature that he has not felt in many years.

One that now seems as familiar as his own. He straightens to his full height, then moves from the village into the forest.


	16. Sixteen : The painted miracle you’ve never understood.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Take him and go,” Marek says. “He’ll lose out on what could be the most important find of a generation among the Jedi.”_
> 
> _Tal starts to speak, but Ti answers for him—right after dropping one eyelid in a wink. “I think that he’ll be fine. Many paths are open to him, not just that of a historian. I’m sure that he’d excel at that as well, even without the adulation of his peers.” Her eyes lance into him. “Provided that he can survive whatever his mouth gets him into,” she finishes._
> 
> _Tal looks down, but closes his eyes against the sting of tears. He feels her warmth through their bond, belying her last words._

Ahsoka opens her eyes at the intense azure of the hyperspace tunnel. She takes a deep breath, releasing it immediately. She leans back in the seat; her montrals and rear lekku rest against the high headrest of the ejection seat. She glances down at the console and sees the comforting green bar on the screen of the navicomputer that indicates Arseven is linked with the old ship. 

She wonders how long it has been since Covenant has sat in this chair. On a whim, she moves her nose to the leather of the seat. One part of her imagines that she can detect his unique, almost indescribable scent. A mix of a woodsy essence that she associated with her world and its Hunt-culture, mixed with his own spicy tang. An overlay of another essence that she had associated with the thousands of calm men who had nurtured her, laughed with her, and died next to her—before they had slaughtered her only family. She doesn’t allow the pain to overwhelm her as she focuses on the mixed essences of the only other true survivor of that family, that she is aware of.

She breathes in a deep lungful of air; the scent remains. Her eyebrow markings raise as she detects faint residue of others intermingled. Much fainter, but still there. Another—not just an overlay of one of her brothers. According to what Bryne had discovered, one who had not participated in that slaughter. A damaged warrior who had settled into a good-natured, but passionate defender and rescuer of those brothers cast off by the Empire. Including those who had been sold into slavery by unscrupulous Imperial officers after their usefulness had ended. 

Ahsoka’s heart clinches as she detects the third scent of this passionate, loving group. A similar spicy scent to Covenant, with the tang of _beskar_ iron that, to all accounts, the owner of that scent was an artist with. She smiles softly at the thought of Covenant’s late wife, J’ohlana Wren. She knows that she shares the fabric of her hunt-brother’s heart with her, as well as that of their unborn son. 

Thoughts of these scents—of those who share his heart move to those that she had left behind on Zeltros. The ones that had wormed their own way into her own frozen heart over the last few years. She smiles as she thinks of this new, mythological bond that she now shares with these three incredible women. The Links of the Covenant’s True Chain—an interwoven, mutual protection society, who could enjoy each other’s laughter, warmth, and snark. She laughs at that last thought— _always the snark_. Other parts of her remember all of the types of warmth that they share.

She shakes those thoughts away; thoughts that are hard to send away when thinking of the oldest of those companions—sword-mates in Corellian parlance. One of the warmest, most loving people she had ever met, not just in the ways that her people were famous for. A woman who takes all of their pain, who helps heal their souls. She chokes with emotion as she thinks of Dani Faygan’s own pain and loss. She closes her eyes as her mind recalls Dani’s scent, a warm floral scent recalling the lavender found on both of her worlds—Zeltros and Corellia. Her memory flows back to a distinct time in her memory. A time after both had stood more of a chance of dying a violent death than some other instances in their risky history. She remembers the feel of Dani standing next to her, against a wall on Dani’s mother’s world. Their hands bound behind them; Ahsoka’s encased in Force-cuffs. She remembers the feel of Dani’s hand, awkwardly holding hers tightly as they waited for a squad of her former brothers to open their chests with blaster fire. 

An instant before the people of this beautiful loving world, had risen in a conjoined expression of the emotional resonance against the invaders. A resonance focused by Dani’s mother. One that was a closely guarded secret, but one that had kept Zeltros from being invaded by many who had tried. She feels those certain other parts of her body twitch again, as she remembers the closeness of Dani’s scent as they had celebrated their lives in the final day of the fertility festival, one celebrating the Chalice of Omri; a name for that living vessel of the world’s protection. Alyysina Faygan. That same long-lost mother of the woman under her lips and fingers in that warm and beautiful night. She pushes—no, shoves those sensations away. _Not the time for this. Not in front of Arseven_ , she thinks unbidden.

Her mind moves to Dani’s younger foster-sister—a young woman whose essence recalls her sharp edges. _Sharp elbows and snark_ , she thinks with a grin. Covenant’s nickname for Nola comes to her mind, along with that sharp, but ultimately warm essence—something like the conifers that grow in the high elevations of Alderaan— _Last Word_. Her heart falls as she thinks of the distance between them now; a distance caused by a decision—the decision by Nola to conceal Covenant’s and her existence from each other, when both had thought the other dead. An impossible position for any handler; an impossible order to follow for a young woman who died a little every time Ahsoka went out into the galaxy—just as a part of her heart had died with her Queen and fellow Handmaidens, before she and Ahsoka had met. 

Ahsoka breathes out. She had forgiven Nola, as had Covenant—even before she had, because of his own slight part in this, with his instructions to keep his identity secret. She had forgiven her because of Nola’s powerful loyalty. Even though her post-adolescent level of maturity would find it hard to admit, she had felt safer knowing that Nola would move heaven and worlds to get to her if she was in trouble. She had proven it on a small world that Ahsoka had found herself trying to save more of her people, all while battling a debilitating illness. She makes a mental note to push her way into Nola’s space once again. To close the distance. 

Ahsoka remembers a laughing aside from Dani of what all of them were. _We’re a family. We fight, we protect, we forgive. We live_. Ahsoka had intentionally left out the other verb that Dani had added with a smirk, now that she is trying to suppress those certain thoughts. 

She smiles as she thinks of a definite ally in kicking Nola’s ass back into their old dynamic. The youngest among them, the young woman with the overlay of the vanilla-scent of one strain of the symbol of her world—the candlewick that grew near her mountain village. She giggles; the smell of breakfast meat from her time as a diner-owner overwhelms Ahsoka’s senses. She thinks of the turns that Meglann’s life had taken in the last year. She remembers the young woman telling her that all she had wanted after they had met was a kiss—a wish that had grown into a desire to wake up next to Ahsoka. A crush that had grown into such powerful respect for Ahsoka, once she had learned of her past. As with her thoughts of the others, her heart ascends and then descends as she recalls the pain that she had felt, the first time that she had seen Meglann standing with that rank-plaque on her chest—an insignia that had belonged to her mother. A pain engendered by a selfish desire on her own part to have a normal—something that would keep her anchored among the various reprobates that she had recruited and dealt with. 

Meglann had quietly defeated all of her arguments of a ‘normal’, by reminding her that it wouldn’t just be space wizards, borderline criminals, and world-movers who would free the galaxy. It would be the normal citizens of that galaxy, learning new skills and stepping outside of their comfort zones. Ahsoka laughs out loud as she thinks of the joy and desire that Meglann had taken to her new lessons, of a heretofore untapped capacity for chaos, a capacity that didn’t involve using a frying pan. 

Her expression darkens as she thinks of a potential member of their little association. One that would take the role of one of the Others—a Link who walked a different path, or one who needed to be watched. A position in the Links that could rotate among more than one—signified by a slightly tarnished, different color to the Link on the actual symbol. One that appears to fluctuate in different lights. 

A Pantoran pirate with her own sharp edges, but with a heart as large as the Outer Rim for those who she considers her family. For some reason, she finds it difficult to identify a particular scent in her memory, even though she has been as intimate with Lassa Rhayme as the others—she had been the first that she had made love with except for sporadic, clumsy grapplings with another padawan and even clumsier attempts with a young smuggler in the Coruscant undercity, after her exile. 

She shakes her head at the irrational feud between Lassa and Dani. One that Bryne had described its genesis in a knife fight on Lassa’s ship. One that no one, possibly even the participants fully understands. She grins as she thinks of something that she had learned during that time on Dani’s world. A technique of mediation, most probably unique to the Zeltrons called interlocution. She wonders if a non-Zeltron could use those techniques to intercede in this dispute, without the risk of her own knife wounds earned in the attempt. A technique that would involve, the entirety of the Zeltron soul—the heart, the mind, and the body. She Smirks. _No one had voiced any complaints in the last year or so at those techniques of the body_. She starts as she suddenly identifies the essence that could be associated with her pirate. She Smirk returns as she inhales the remembered scent of Tevraki whisky, gun-leather, and a slight bit of blaster ozone thrown in. 

The smile fades as she thinks about what she had seen in Bryne’s Force sense. She wonders if she will see him and her Links and Links-that-could-be, again, as she attempts to unravel this mystery and growing disturbance in the Force. 

Behind her, Arseven beeps once. She closes her eyes as she prepares herself. A green, luminescent world—green mixed with other vibrant colors, heaves into view.

**The Past**

Taliesin Croft lifts his eyes as the trio trudges past the first high stone. His eyes travel to the top of the totem; the charcoal gray tripping a memory from an ancient text. He nods, then turns to his master. “This is it, Master,” he says. “This is the Gray Temple of Xim’s Chronicles.”

“I’m curious, Taliesin,” Ti replies. “You both keep referring to Xim the Despot. I wasn’t aware that he was a great scholar on ancient Jedi lore.”

Tal grins. “He wasn’t, Master Shaak. It’s just that he had a tendency to gather all sorts of research, then dismember the actual authors of said research and claim it for his own. All the while trying to give the impression of being a benevolent philosopher-king.”

“Dismember?” she asks, her eyebrow markings raised. 

“Let’s just say that he was a huge fan of the four-rancor method of stifling academic disagreement,” Tal replies, adding under his breath, “good thing that’s a thing of the past.”

She looks sharply at him, but says nothing as she turns to Marek.

“What now, Lorhena? You brought us here, what’s next?” she asks the other Master.

Marek’s dark blue eyes lock with hers, the anger flashing briefly. “Well, Shaak, I guess this is where we find out who’s right—the padawan or the Master?” she says challengingly. “Use your training, Master,” she says tersely. 

All three of the Jedi unburden themselves of their packs and robes, then move closer to one another. Tal feel his master’s familiar touch on his shoulder, Marek’s less familiar on his opposite. He closes his eyes, concentrating on nothing more than Shaak Ti’s even breaths. A deeper fall into the Force and he can concentrate on her Togruta-rapid heartbeat. He feels his eyebrows rise as Marek’s regular human heartbeat moves into his consciousness. He slows his own as he deepens his concentration even more. He is buffeted by Marek’s thoughts—surprisingly undisciplined and all over the place in her attempts to find meaning in this Temple. 

He relaxes, allowing Ti’s familiar mind to steady his through the bond. He feels a smirk—the patented expression of many of the hunters of her species, including a tiny smartass from a clan of smartasses. Just as quickly, the expression in his mind is gone, replaced by her version of serene decorum. 

He moves his mind to Marek’s, intending to send some sort of peace offering to her. His heart suddenly flips as he detects an anomaly in her sense—almost a residual effect, left over from some long ago experience. 

An echo of another’s Force signature, overlaid with hers. 

Just as suddenly, all three of them are cut off from one another. Tal’s eyes snap open; he manages to sense her presence through her touch. Her cool hand moves to the skin of his neck. They both cling to the bond as a massive emptiness fills them. 

_I’ve got you, my child_ , Tal hears in his mind. He starts as he hears it in both Togruti and Basic. 

Slowly, surely, his Force sense opens up, like an iris on a holorecorder opening from the center. His eyes lock with Ti’s. After a moment, the worry escapes her violet eyes. They both look over at Lorhena Marek.

She stands separated from them, her hands on her knees, her eyes closed. Tal starts to move towards her, but Ti stops him. He sees her shoulders slumped, even in her crouched posture. 

Slowly, she rises to her full height. Her eyes lock with his; her lips curl. He feels more anger from her than he has ever felt in his young life—at least from another Jedi. 

“I guess that you were right, Croft,” she says, her lip curling up. She spits every word at him. He involuntarily takes a step back; her anger is almost palpable, closing in on him. 

She takes a step towards him. He feels himself yanked back as Shaak Ti steps in between the two. “Don’t even think about it, Marek,” she says, her own anger present, but controlled. “You might want to think very hard about your next step, Master,” she says forcefully, but without raising her soft voice. “I think we’re done here. You’re obsessed with this object. I went along with this, as long as I felt that my padawan was safe. No more. We’re heading back to our shuttle.”

“Take him and go,” Marek says. “He’ll lose out on what could be the most important find of a generation among the Jedi.”

Tal starts to speak, but Ti answers for him—right after dropping one eyelid in a wink. “I think that he’ll be fine. Many paths are open to him, not just that of a historian. I’m sure that he’d excel at that as well, even without the adulation of his peers.” Her eyes lance into him. “Provided that he can survive whatever his mouth gets him into,” she finishes. 

Tal looks down, but closes his eyes against the sting of tears. He feels her warmth through their bond, belying her last words. 

He glances at Marek. Her expression is now blank. She turns and moves away, moving ahead on the trail. Ti takes his arm and turns him towards the settlement—the way that they had come. 

“But Master, shouldn’t we go with her?” he asks, his voice steadier than he feels. “She could get hurt.”

Ti starts to say something, then stops. She is about to turn back towards the way that Lorhena has gone when a violent tremor nearly knocks them from their feet. A loud thumping sound, accompanied by the crashing of foliage, starts to move closer towards them, from their sides—from the west, rather than the south from where they had come. 

Tal and Croft stare at the shaking trees several meters above the. Their lightsabers fly into their hands as one. 

A reptilian head, with a gray pointed beak, pokes through the foliage at that height. It stares at them with small eyes. Eyes that suddenly, to a certain Corellian padawan, look very hungry. 

Or at least pissed off. 

“Move very slowly, Tal,” her master whispers. “Move back down the trail to our packs.”

As they both start to crab sideways, the snap-hiss of a lightsaber igniting sounds to the north. A figure leaps, swinging its lightsaber. 

Just in time to parry a burst of energy from the creature’s hands. A jagged burst of lightning. 

“New plan! Move very fast, Tal!” Ti yells. “Move towards the north.”

He makes to hold up his hand, to summon their packs. As he does a burst of energy transfixes the trail where they had left them.

“No time—follow Lorhena.”

“I just got that damned robe broken in,” he says plaintively as he obeys his master. 

He hears his master’s laughter rise as the creature—a jungle rancor, he remembers, starts to crash towards them.

* * *

Dani sits down next to the fire. The others had followed Lyndia out. She knows that Lyndia was exhausted, was barely able to stand, even with Nola and Meglann’s support. 

Dani’s eyes had misted when she had seen that both young women were nearly asleep on their feet, from the _Zela_ technique that they had participated in. She allows her own eyes to close for a moment. 

Only for a moment, before she sighs and rises from her chair again. She walks over to the bed. Bryne appears to be sleeping peacefully, after the emotional deluge that had at least told Lyndia something about what was keeping him embedded in whatever it was in his mind. 

_In his soul as well_. Perhaps not the Zeltron version, but one older than all of their civilizations. She wonders if other galaxies have anything like a half-mystical, half-biological energy field binding them and their inhabitants together. 

She takes a deep breath as she remembers one image—one sensation that had filled her own sense, causing her to pause in her _assistance_ for the healer and facilitator of the _Zela_. She had ignored Nola’s concerned look at the pause, had only the senses for this one sensation. 

A sensation of compassion, humor, and warmth; a powerful serenity, bolstered by a sight of violet eyes looking down at her. 

Violet eyes surrounded by dark gray. Gray everywhere, an ashen color pervading her entire sense. She hears the musical accent in her mind. _Come to me, my love. Come to me one last time. For Tal._

In the debrief, she had shared this with Lyndia privately. Lyndia had asked her what she thought it meant. She hadn’t been certain of her emotions enough to answer. She was extremely unsure of what the all-encompassing neutral color had meant. Lyndia had left it at that, but had said that she felt a great deal of pain and regret from Bryne—something also tied to that color.

At the same time, Lyndia had said that the sensations were overlaid with something else; something not of Bryne’s signature. 

Dani touches Bryne— _Tal’s_ forehead, her fingertips running lightly just at the edge of his gray hairline. She stops as she hears the door open. She turns; a sensation of something less than warmth pervading her resonance.

Lassa Rhayme stands there, her bronze eyes spitting fire. All during the _Zela_ , the two had been nowhere near each other; had not interacted. All of their contact and engagement in the technique had been with Nola and Meglann, respectively. Lassa’s eyes soften as they fall on Dani’s hand on Bryne’s head. She turns to go. 

Dani finds her voice. “Don’t go, Rhayme,” she says quietly. Lassa stops in mid-turn. She turns, then walks without a word to the chair that Dani had vacated near Tussie’s pad at the fireplace. She looks down at the floor as she sits. 

Dani shakes her head, then sits gently on the bed near Bryne. After several moments of silence, she hears a sound from Lassa. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Lassa open and then quickly close her mouth. 

Another moment, Dani opens her own mouth, then closes it as her courage escapes her. One more round of opening and closing pieholes passes them both by. 

Dani falls into her thoughts; thoughts of several months on this woman’s ship, with the man lying in the bed, as well as the young woman now making her way to Felucia, on nothing more than a hunch and word from a man in a coma. She smiles softly as she remembers Tal’s padawan, an earnest young Wookiee named Gungi. She wonders where he is at; if he is even alive after Tal had sent him to Wild Space with the caution to never use the Force again. To hide. To live, after the death of the Jedi. An action that had caused Gungi to swear his eternal hatred for his master. Something that Dani knew had cut Tal to the bone; he had never forgotten.

“I loved a Zeltron, once,” Lassa says. Dani turns to her, her expression neutral. She focuses her attention on the pirate. “A young man who I traveled with as a member of his family crew. His sister was the Captain; her heart-bond was a mind-healer who no longer practiced.” Dani smiles at that.

“That’s how you knew what the _Zela_ healing-scan was,” she says. 

Lassa nods. “We were just a little tramp-freighter. Did some smuggling, as well as legitimate cargo. It was the first happiness I’d known. They were my first true family.” Dani sees her eyes fall to the deck again. 

“What happened?” she asks gently. 

Lassa looks up at her. “We were caught by the Trade Federation. A commissar named Durd executed them without trial. Called them pirates. He decided that I should remain alive; so that he could examine the scientific effects on me.”

“Lok Durd? The one who kidnapped Nola?”

“One and the same,” Lassa replies. She sees Dani smile. “What?”

“I made him hurt,” Dani says simply. “Lost a damned good knife. Left it in both of his hands buried in the wood of his chair. Deep.” Her smile takes on a harder edge. “I was aiming for his balls.”

Lassa laughs. “You do like your knives,” she says, rubbing her arm.

“So do you,” Dani replies, rubbing her leg. They both laugh. 

Lassa falls silent. After a moment, she points to Dani’s middle. “I saw that amber jewel over your hips earlier. I know what that means for your people, having seen similar ones on Chienne and Cona—the Captain and the healer.”

Dani takes a deep breath, then hooks her thumb in the waistband of her light skirt. She pulls the skirt down, exposing the jewelry. Lassa nods. “Thought so. I know that tooth in the spirit-resin. You were bonded to Shaak Ti, weren’t you?”

Dani closes her eyes and feels herself nod. “Yes,” she whispers.

“I met her once. She was so powerful and warm. I saw how she loved Tal, even when he could piss her off.”

Dani laughs at that. “Yes, she did. Even then.” Her eyes soften as she looks at the current version of that padawan. “Much like us.”

“You ain’t kidding,” Lassa replies. “Dani,” she says as the laughter subsides.

“Yes?” Dani asks, her eyes sharp at the pirate’s soft tone.

“I guess we could call a truce. For Bryne’s sake.” She looks down. “At least a temporary one.”

Dani nods. “I suppose we could.” She laughs. “Might be fun to keep it going a bit, though. I think that Ahsoka wants to intercede—to negotiate in the Zeltron way.”

Lassa mirrors her expression. “Been awhile since I’ve been part of an interlocution,” she says. 

“Subject or instigator?”

“I’ll never tell,” Lassa replies.

Dani stands up, extends her hand. “Truce. At least at the heart. For everybody else, we keep it going.”

Lassa shakes her hand. “Agreed. But let’s keep the edged weapon wounds to a minimum.” She grasps Dani’s hand with her other, squeezes it tightly. “I mourn your heart-bond, Dani. Even before I knew she was that.” She looks down. “My first love’s name was Laine. Laine Constan.”

They stand with their hands clasped, thinking of their dead.

Behind them, one of their living stirs slightly. Not quite ready to become one who they mourn.

* * *

Ti watches with pride as her padawan stands next to her, deflecting the sustained lightning from the beast lumbering towards them, as the three of them cover each others’ backs. She watches as the rancor waves an arm, sending several large uprooted trees towards Tal, who is slightly higher to draw the lightning towards his blade. Marek grins at her with the exhilaration of the fight. Ti returns the expression, allowing her sharp incisors to show, as they work together to send the trees and the rocks back towards the creature. 

Ti sees Marek’s features turn grim. She shakes her head at Ti. “It’s forcing us back. Back to the trail to the Red Temple. It’s as if something wants us to be there.”

Ti nods. “I had read that these hunter-rancors are semi-sentient. But never heard of any that could reason enough to force anyone anywhere to a specific place.” She grins tightly again. “Also never heard of one with Force sense and the ability to throw Sith-lightning.”

“Point taken,” Lorhena says. “I think there’s something larger at work here.”

“You think?” Ti retorts, the snark stronger than she actually intended. _A tiny bit stronger_ , one part of her mind thinks. 

“I think it’s part of the Asundrance. The Asundrance is using the beast; it’s chosen it as guardian.

A word from Croft’s vocabulary crops into her mind unbidden. _Bullshit_. She manages to keep her eyes from rolling. “Come on, Lorhena. I think that you’re fixated on this damned thing too much. I think we may have stumbled onto our missing Sith.”

Lorhena doesn’t rise to her sharp tone. “We only have to stand our ground and kill the thing, Shaak. I think the three of us can do it.”

“I’m not sure that we should kill an innocent creature, especially if it’s not under its own mind,” Ti replies. She realizes that the objects have started coming harder and faster. The lightning, on the other hand, seems to have dissipated. 

She turns, looking for her padawan. She sees why the lightning has diminished—or at least shifted targets to a higher level.

To the padawan now Force sprinting and jumping over the tops of the trees, heading to the east.

The rancor seems to be ignoring them all together as it begins its own version of a Force sprint, through the dense foliage.

“Tal! No!” she yells. She switches to the bond. _Croft, dammit, come back here!_

There is silence in her mind. She can feel his concentration. Her eyes fall on a plume of dark smoke just ahead. She tracks down to the source. She sees a column of red fire bursting from a vent. She smiles. 

Marek sees as well. “You’ve trained him well, Shaak. You should be proud.” She smirks. “Of course, you came up with that plan, right?”

Ti laughs nervously. “Yes. Of course I did. Never a doubt.”

She sees Tal’s eyes lock on a spot of ground, a cliff a short distance away from them—a safe distance from the lava port. Her eyes widen at what he locks on.

A female _akul_ beast; orangish red, scarred. A gray furred cub by her side. She looks at Marek, who is looking in the same spot, but shows no sign of seeing the Mother and her cub.

Tal leaps towards the pair, just as the rancor screams and tries to backpedal off of its own cliff, over the fire.

Croft sticks the landing and turns to Ti in triumph. 

An instant before the ledge collapses, sending him towards another chasm.

Ti screams.

Bryne Covenant starts awake. He stares around at his surroundings. He is alone.


	17. Tender, and bitter-sweet, and shy, I’ve watched you holding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Felucia,” Lassa says quietly._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Yes,” Lyndia replies. “I got the impression that there was a feeling of great shame. Of failure associated with that world.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“Ahsoka told me she nearly got herself and bunch of her troops killed because she was too eager,” Meglann says._
> 
>  
> 
> _“I think some of the failure might be from Bryne,” Lyndia says. “It has something to do with whatever that external emotional signature is. There are possibly two signatures; I can’t tell. One of them very close to Bryne.”_

Ahsoka gasps as she opens herself to the Force again. Arseven boops as he drops the _Beskad_ into a high orbit. She grinds her teeth as dark emotions assault her senses. 

She focuses on those emotions. She licks her lips as a strange taste comes into her mouth. She focuses on analyzing the feelings—feelings that had not been present when she had last been here, not even a week ago. At least not present in the amounts she’s feeling now.

She closes her eyes. As she does, she recalls the mind-healing session with Lyndia Gorlute and Bryne. The part of her brain that controls her senses locks onto the taste. She realizes that the taste is not as unique as she had thought. 

Ahsoka releases her breath. As she does, another emotion rears its head, behind the veil of darkness. She tries to focus on that feeling to identify it; she fails as the darkness surrounds it, but not not quite completely stifling the tickle of warmth. She reclines her head against the headrest again, staring at Felucia in the canopy. 

The feelings present during the healing session—those of despair, anger, envy, and jealousy, had not been Bryne’s emotions. They felt _external_ —something that he had experienced as well, but had been powerful enough to imprint on his memory. She leans up, pressing her hands against her eyes, as if trying to shove the dark wave back into its container, pulling the lighter emotion forward, in a desperate attempt to cleanse her mind.

It works. 

Warmth flows through her body—not quite the type associated when Dani Faygan is around her and hunting. More along the lines of the warmth that Dani exudes when doing nothing more than wanting to help or heal. 

A feeling of strong love flows into her mind—a powerful sensation. One that she had only felt in her earliest memories, then from only one person in this incarnation. A love that was mostly—in this intensity—directed at another. She shakes her head. _No_ , she thinks, _at me as well._

She sees the source of that unconditional love in her mind’s eye. A tall huntress, whose serenity belies a passionate nature. A protector of her loved ones, of those in need of help and guidance. 

A mother in all but name and body; a mother tempered by the loss of two of her padawans.

Shaak Ti’s face takes shape in her mind. Her eyes widen as she sees how the Master—the Elder of the Hunt—is dressed.

Raw homespun that bares and enhances her strength. She stands on a familiar world, a world filled with bright colors and huge fauna, trampling through the forests of immense fungal plants. 

Ahsoka narrows her eyes at the thoughts. She had never seen Ti dressed in Hunt-clothing in any other context than actually participating in some form of the Hunt-culture. Her eyes take in the Elder, recalling every detail

This Shaak Ti’s lekku are even longer than she remembered. She tries to recall Ti’s age. She had been forty when the war had begun. 

These lekku, even with just a bit time passing are easily those of a female Togruta in her late forties. Growth intensifies a bit in the fourth decade of life. She pushes idle thoughts away that sometimes plague her in the dark. Thoughts of whether she would live see her own lekku at this length, other than in a half-remembered vision.

She pushes the vision of Ti away, concentrates on other memories from the mind-healing. She locks eyes on the remains of the Republic tank she had seen and the pale ruins. In her mind, she sees the two visions conflated. 

“Arseven, put us down a ways from here,” she says, marking half-remembered coordinates. Coordinates associated with an immense feeling of failure. Arseven is silent for a moment as he digests her instructions. 

_He remembers, as well._

“[Are you sure, Snips?]” he asks. 

“Yeah, little guy. I’m sure. Put us a bit to the north,” she replies.

There is no reply, but she feels the ship heel over. 

She realizes that her bladder feels as if one of those jungle rancors is pressing on it. She sighs and lowers the pilot’s chair to the deck below. She unbuckles her restraints and turns to walk down the passageway to the after compartment. She moves closer to a door on her left. A door that she has refrained from opening, since she has been on this trip. 

She stops before the door and takes a deep breath. She can almost feel his Force sense in this, the compartment that he and J’ohlana had lived and loved. She looks back at the middle compartment, at the modifications that made it into a living area. She grins at the expensive caf-maker in the small kitchen, in the forward part of the subdivided compartments. She compares it in her mind to the first _Nu_ -class she had ever been on. The plain compartment in which she had made her journey to Christophsis. 

A journey that started it all for her. She remembers the anticipation as she waited for the forward ramp to open in the bright sun. Of laying eyes on Anakin Skywalker as her master for the first time.

She pushes into the cabin. Her eyes soften at the warm touches in the cramped space, the double bed and clothing containers. She opens the small closet, smiles at familiar clothing, a mix of business suits and work clothes. She closes the door.

Her eyes fall on a t-shaped wooden stand, with ornate carvings on the crossbar. Another vertical stand rises above the crossbar. She nods to herself, remembering similar stands from her time on Mandalore. Stands usually made only for _beskar’gam_. She runs her hand over the fine workmanship.

She looks to the left of the mirror and smiles gently at the piece of parchment hanging from a wall. A cacophony of bright colors with a childish signature at the bottom. _Sabine_. Ahsoka files that name for the future. 

On one side of the bed, another, slightly more mature pencil sketch rests on the nightstand. A sketch of a Mandalorian warrior, his helmet in his arms. She lets out her held breath as she looks at the face.

The face that she had last seen lying unconscious, but peaceful on a bed on a bright world. 

She is amazed at the details captured, including the small three-pointed abstract star cut into his forehead by a lightsaber. She nods at the artist’s name, repeated on this portrait. She touches the face of the subject.

She remembers what she had come in for, as she feels the braking thrusters fire. She opens the door to the small onsuite ‘fresher.

Ahsoka nearly puts her lightsaber through the chest of the being inside.

**The Past**

Ti’s primal scream trails off as she watches Taliesin plummet from the collapsing ledge. She leaps towards the still-stable side of the cliff wall, her hand reaching out, pressing towards her padawan. She senses Lorhena leaping with her, but her Force signature wavers distractedly. She feels Taliesin’s side under her fingers. Her Force sense is scrambling, trying to get a purchase on him.

She grabs his arm. As she does, she feels something tugging at his other side. Her eyes flash with anger and _yes_ , fear towards Marek. She senses that Marek’s mind is wholly distracted. The opposing force comes from elsewhere. As she concentrates on him, another part of her mind allows her anger to spike again—all focused on her fellow Jedi Master. On the fact that Tal would not be in this position, if Marek’s naked ambition for power had not risen over her good judgement. 

It isn’t lost on her that a large part of her anger is reserved for herself. Ti feels the anger pressing in on her. The faces of her other padawans—not the bright faces of their lives, but the blank emptiness of their death-faces. She sees the red swelling around her vision; the fear for this young Corellian.

 _Master, I’m fine_ , she hears in her mind.

_Taliesin! I need to get you out of there!_

_I’m safe. I think this thing is calling to me. Are you feeling a call?_ Her mind screams with the possibilities. She whirls on Marek again, but concentrates on Taliesin.

_No, I don’t, Taliesin. Why is it calling to you?_

Even as she thinks it through the training bond, she suddenly knows why. 

She walks up to Marek and shoves the woman. She feels Marek suddenly focus on her, her attention pinpointed. She takes a deep breath and advances on the human. “This is why you wanted Tal. It wasn’t his knowledge. It’s because he’s now a Shadow.”

Marek’s lip quirks up. Ti’s eyes widen at the blood suddenly seeping from Lorhena’s nose. “No. It’s because he has the Face-Dance ability. I think there’s a connection with those who created the thing.”

Shaak Ti gives into the anger. “Then why the hell didn’t you test it on yourself? You’re the only other Jedi Shadow that’s developed this ability in a couple of centuries. Why Croft?”

The smile grows. “Because it was risky. I wanted to see the affects on someone else before I commit to the Asundrance.” She stops, her face growing hard. “I have more to live for, now. Much more than a padawan.”

Ti shoves her anger aside, concentrating on the spark at the other end of the training bond—the still-bright spark. Her heart clinches as she focuses on Marek’s signature. The signature strobes between bright light and intense darkness. 

Marek ignites her lightsaber. Ti locks on the faces of Atti and Fe Sun in her mind as her own lightsaber flies into her hand. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the Mother gazing at her, the gray-furred cub next to her. Taliesin rolls in her mind next, laughing at something.

Azure energy flashes as she parries a strike from Marek.

* * *

Ahsoka jumps back, managing to deactivate her saber before it finds itself lodged in the small being’s chest.

“Holy shit, Phygus! What the hell are you doing here? I nearly skewered you!” she yells. 

Both she and Phygus’s respirations take several moments to settle. She sits down on the deck, as he has claimed the only seat in the tiny ‘fresher. Idly, she thanks whatever Force gods that actually exist that he had not been using the room for what it was intended for when she had surprised him.

Or apparently hadn’t, given the mostly normal smell.

Baldrick avoids her gaze after they calm. “How did I not detect you?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. 

He gives what he would think is his most charming smile. “I was a Shadow, darlin’. Only thing I can still do is run and hide.” He says this with such a sharp, biting tone, that she immediately softens. She reaches down and kisses him on his now-bald head, her weapon hand lingering on his left temple. 

Phygus gives her a crooked grin, an expression that is almost painful in its similarity to another. A certain Corellian-Mandalorian—self-claimed ‘little brother’ to the slicer.

The grin fades as he looks at the sadness in her eyes. She manages to smile when she sees him looking at her. 

“I heard what you did to help Bryne get off of Coruscant.” She looks down. “I know that it took a lot for you to do that.”

He nods, then lifts his hand to hers, squeezing it tightly. “He would’ve done the same for me, Ahsoka,” he says. She braces herself as she sees the gleam in his gray eyes. 

“Does this mean I get a look at your boobs?” She rubs her hands over her eyes, then shoves him off of the seat. He lands on his ass, but his grin remains wide.

She stares at him, then allows a slighter version of a Smirk to flow over her lips. She reaches up to her throat and touches the fastening of her top.

The fastening is down to just above her navel when he gulps and holds his hand out, stopping her. “No. I still want you to admit that I’m better at pranks than you are before you grace me with a glimpse of those.” She sees him look away, then turns and concentrates on her eyes. She raises the fastening back up. 

Phygus takes a deep breath. “You do know that I love you, right?” he asks, his expression powerful in its sincerity.

She tries to hide her surprise, then closes her eyes. She fights against the sting. She finally opens them and manages to keep her expression light. 

“Don’t make it weird, little man,” she says. She is rewarded by his habitual sardonic expression returning. He salutes her, then pulls his datapad. 

“Got some information that might help you. Tal told me a bit about Felucia.”

He huffs as Ahsoka reaches down and pulls him to his feet, then shoves him towards the door of the compartment, her hands on his ass. “I still have to finish what I came in here for,” she says. 

“The poo-pourri is in the cabinet above the—”

“Out!”

* * *

Lassa sips her caf and looks at the two young women sleeping in the guest bedroom of the Chalice’s retreat. The smaller of the two lies on one edge of the double bed, uncovered. The larger, and slightly older lies diagonally across the bed, the remaining covers wrapped around her body, with only her chestnut bob sticking out. Nola’s method of sleeping probably accounts for Meglann’s tenuous grip on the edge of the bed, as well as the fact that she has no covering except for a brief tanktop and underwear. 

Lassa sets her caf cup down as the door opens. Lyndia Gorlute, Dani, and Dani’s mother, Alyysina Faygan, walk in. Lassa’s eyes take in the dark circles under the healer’s eyes, but she is alert and gives a dazzling smile to the pirate. 

Dani nods, one corner of her lips lifting. Lassa’s eyes widen at the dark expression that the Chalice of Omri, the Protector of Zeltros gives her. Her always-black eyes glare at Lassa; if they had been weaponized, Lassa would be a pile of blue ash. 

Dani rolls her eyes, then taps her mother on her bare shoulder. She jerks her head to the door. The Chalice gives Lassa a long, lingering look, then nods, a slight smile appearing. The expression grows into a smirk as she looks Lassa up and down. Lassa breathes in as the resonance—one filled with power even on ‘low’, focuses on her. Dani shoves her mother towards the door with a smirk of her own.

Lassa pushes the lust down as best as she can. She turns back to the bed and nods to the dark green droid with the transparent dome. R10-X22 beeps. Lassa places her fingers in her ears. Dani, Alyys and Lyndia manage to follow suit as a loud bellowing sound emits from the droid’s speakers; a bellow with the overtones of a loud electronic gonging.

Meglann leaps from the bed, manages to slip on a stray sock and falls on her ass. Her eyes spit fire at the droid. Lassa laughs at the bronze curls, now sticking out in all directions from her head.

Dani points to the other lump in the bed. The only reaction is for a bare arm to reach out and pull Meglann’s pillow from the small area not covered by a diagonal ex-Handmaiden of Naboo. She places the pillow over the small amount of hair not covered by the hogged bedclothes. 

Lassa motions to Deuce. The ex-Imperial astromech/gunner lowers her central wheel and trundles around to the other side of the bed. She extends a small probe. As she does, a hand reaches out in the droid’s direction. A hand holding a small Naboo blaster, muzzle up, but in the general direction of anyone or thing that would disturb its wielder’s sleep. 

“Don’t even think about it, trashcan,” comes from the lump of covers.

Lyndia and Dani look at one another. They close their eyes. Lassa grins at the rising warmth, as does Meglann. Warmth not focused on them. A long sigh comes from the bed. “Okay, okay, twits. You made your point. Turn the hoodoo down. I’ll get up.”

Twenty minutes later, Nola walks in, dressed in cargo trousers, work boots, and an exercise shirt. Lassa grins as she remembers something that Ahsoka had said, quoting Covenant. _She’d look like she was in business suit and heels even if she was stark naked._

They watch and wait as Nola fixes her caf and grabs several pieces of bacon from the small buffet. She walks over and sits next to her foster-sister. 

Lyndia looks at all of them. “I wanted for us to get some rest before we unpacked what we were able to get from the Zela circle yesterday.” She smiles warmly at all of them. “You were all a great help. You’re very passionate and caring for each other and for Bryne. I could sense it through the resonance.”

Lassa feels Lyndia’s gaze fall on her, then on Dani. “I’m glad at least a couple of you could put aside your asinine feud long enough to help Bryne.”

Neither woman looks at her, or says anything in reply. Nola breaks the silence. “What do you think that you found?”

“Not much. Just snippets of scenes. Bryne on a watery world, watching someone die. Uncertainty as to that person’s death. Some memory on the world that he spoke of from what Lassa told us.” She looks at Lassa. “The one that Ahsoka has left for. She is sure to find answers.”

“Felucia,” Lassa says quietly. 

“Yes,” Lyndia replies. “I got the impression that there was a feeling of great shame. Of failure associated with that world.”

“Ahsoka told me she nearly got herself and bunch of her troops killed because she was too eager,” Meglann says. 

“I think some of the failure might be from Bryne,” Lyndia says. “It has something to do with whatever that external emotional signature is. There are possibly two signatures; I can’t tell. One of them very close to Bryne.”

Lassa’s comm chimes. She look over at the window. Ano Lessi, another of their borderline criminal slicers, sits there, away from anyone else, as usual. Lassa nods at the text; the antisocial slicer’s primary way of communication. “I think that we may have an ace in the hole. Phygus knows a little bit about Bryne’s past there. Something serious happened there. Something that Bryne and his master couldn’t talk about.”

“Where is the little shit?” Meglann asks. Ano glares at her. Meglann’s comm dings. She glances at it, before turning bright red.

“I haven’t seen him,” Dani says. 

Lassa stares at the other Pantoran in the room, the three rows of alternating green, gold, and purple diamonds bisecting her thin blue face, centered on the space between her eyes. Ano looks away, refusing to meet her gaze. 

“Spill, Ano,” Nola says. Ano looks over at her and raises her middle finger in her most familiar non-digital reply.

“Well, I’m guessing that Ahsoka has an unwelcome guest on the Beskad,” Dani says. 

“What the hell did you let her go off by herself for, anyway?”comes a raspy voice at the door to the healing room.

Bryne Covenant stands looking at them, his hands braced on the doorframe. He sways, for several seconds, then straightens. He stares at them balefully, until a giggle sounds from the other couch. He lifts his nose, attempting to regain any dignity that anyone can. Anyone standing stark naked in a room of people, only one of which hasn’t seen it all before. 

Another is his mind-healer of record, so she doesn’t count. 

Lassa looks over at Ano, who sits with a broad smirk on her face. She looks back at Bryne. She notices that his gunbelt is slung over his shoulder, so that he isn’t completely nude. 

“You try telling Ahsoka Tano to not do something that she’s already set her mind to. Just like some Corellian-Mandalorian asshole I know. I suppose you’re going to go tear-assing to Felucia for some unknown reason,” Lassa says acerbically.

“Yep. As soon as I find some pants.”

Nola stands up. “Nope. No pants, bud; not that we don’t appreciate the view, but could you cover up? At least for Ano’s sake?” 

The one that she is concerned with, picks up a discarded linen napkin from the breakfast plate near her seat and tosses it to Covenant. He manages to catch the very small square of linen with one hand, but sways again. Lassa can feel the others tense. He waves away their concern with an eyeroll, then stares at Ano, who is holding up her hand, with the thumb and forefinger very close together. He fights the smirk moving to his features, before maintaining the baleful glare. “You think this is going to stop me? On Zeltros?”

“He does have a point,” Lyndia says. 

“We need to contact Ahsoka,” Meglann says. “She needs to know that dumbass is awake and well, holding true to his dumbassery.”

Lassa catches movement out of the corner of her eye. She sees Ano manipulating the small trackball connected to the two data monocles covering her eyes.

She turns back around. Bryne catches her eye, then looks at them all. “Don’t try to follow me,” he says tersely. He turns around, then deliberately lets go of the doorframe. 

They stare at is retreating ass, then at the empty doorframe. 

“He can’t get very far, can he?” Lyndia asks. 

“Never underestimate him,” Dani and Nola say, almost simultaneously. Both women rise. As they do they hear the whine of an engine start, one with a distinctive skip.

“That’s the _‘stone_ ,” Dani says.

Everyone in the room moves to the window, except for Ano.. They see two figures, in varying degrees of size and hairiness running from another building to the revetment, as the bare ass can be seen entering the ramp of the _Draq’stone._

“His comm. He had it on his gunbelt. He signaled Deuce,” Meglann says. 

“Why the hell weren’t Murta and Boge on the ship?” Nola asks. 

“Probably for the same reasons anyone wouldn’t stay locked up on a ship on the Land of Song,” Lyndia says dryly. 

They watch as the battered _Consular_ lifts into the bright sun of midday. 

Dani looks over at Lassa. “Well, do you think that you can stand me being on Opportunity?”

Lassa sits down heavily. She reaches into her vest and pulls out a flask.

* * *

Phygus lifts the pot from the caf-maker and pours the cup. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ahsoka watching him, a look of amusement on her face. Her eyes widen as he pours the precise amount of sweetspice in the drink and hands it to her. 

“How’d you know?” she asks as she takes the cup. 

“That’s how Bryne takes his. I figured since you wear his underwear, you’d adopt his way of fixing caf.” He is treated to the deep flush of the blue on her lekku. He busies himself fixing his own caf. 

Ahsoka runs her hand over the caf-maker, her eyes curious. “This is a pretty pricey piece of equipment,” she says. “From what I gathered from my contact with them, they lived hand to mouth.” 

He nods after a moment. “They put most of the money they had in rescuing clones and slaves.”

Ahsoka’s face grows sad. He smiles, touches her hand. “They were doing some undercover work, trying to save several brothers from an Imperial undermoff. J’oh admired this thing. She, like you and Bryne, really liked her caf. They managed to succeed in rescuing the clones, then this showed up. Gregor and Bryne managed to scam one from a Hutt. J’oh was pissed at the risk, but loved it. Bryne implied that he might have been cut off from the nooky for a bit, but he said that she loved the caf-maker and the thoughtfulness behind it.” He looks around the main compartment. “He says it wasn’t exactly his finest hour, but it made her happy. It was one more thing to make her life joyful.”

Ahsoka is thoughtful as she sips her caf. “Phygus, do you know anything about that mission to Felucia? Were you still in the Order?”

“Yeah. Just barely. He told me about it, at least what he could. He and Ti went through a lot. The Council didn’t want too much information about something that had such a high cost. Especially from something that they wouldn’t admit was out there.”

He looks away at Ahsoka’s expression. “I know that he blamed himself for the outcome.”

“Why?”she asks. 

“He felt that he didn’t have the confidence in himself and his studies to stand up to Marek. He felt that he put Ti in danger because of his choices.”

He sees that she is finished with her caf. He pulls her to her feet. “Come on. I think you need to lay down for a few before you face this. I don’t have a lot of Force sense, but I can feel it’s going to be touch and go.”

Ahsoka follows Phygus down the corridor. He sees her admiring the wood floors, the workmanship of the partitions that divided the large bay of the standard _Nu_ into several compartments. She stops at the hatch across from the cabin. Her eyes fall on the stylistic versions of standard warnings, the extra care and effort put into a shielded door. His eyes widen as she reaches out and touches the door control. “Ahsoka, no—” he starts.

She walks into the compartment. He follows her; sees her stopped. He walks around and looks up at her face. 

Her face is more stricken with sadness than he has ever seen. He follows her eyes over the furnishings. The baby bed in the corner. Several chairs that could double as beds. Storage compartments with rations and medical supplies, for several people for several days. An incongruous toy chest under the bed. The standard controls for a lifepod against the bulkhead.

She reaches out and touches the small mobile that dangles over the bed. He sees a soft smile over her face at the Mando warriors, clonetroopers, and various ships of the Republic making soft chimes at her touch. Her eye falls on the stuffed animal in the corner of the bed. An orange-red version of the apex predator of her world. 

Ahsoka moves over to the bulkhead and turns. Phygus Baldrick knows that she is proud of the fact that she contains her tears—hides them from all, as much as possible. He sees the dam about to burst as she slides down the wall. He walks over to her and gently kisses the forming tears from under her eyes. 

He turns and walks out of the nursery-lifepod. The place where the most precious cargo on the _Beskad_ would’ve lived, if fate had been different. He hears a noise behind him.

Phygus leaves Ahsoka to her grief. Grief for a mother and child she had never had the chance to know.


	18. Another’s child. O childless woman, was it then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ahsoka maneuvers the old shuttle in on approach. As she does, her memory is sparked with familiar landmarks, from the ill-fated lartie ride from her position, after Anakin had pulled her out of what would’ve assuredly been the death of her and her troops. She concentrates on flying and fights the urge to close her eyes and relive the shame and pain once again. The raw disappointment rolling off of her master and his former master on the ride back to the Star Destroyer._  
>     
>  _Not to mention the hyperspace trip back to Coruscant. She hadn’t had to face the disappointment after Anakin had ordered her to her quarters to meditate on what had happened. The GAR had another term for it. ‘Confinement to Quarters’ is what Rex had called it._

Dani Faygan looks at the setting sun from the tower of the Chalice’s retreat. She closes her eyes as she tries to recall every detail from her vision of Shaak Ti and the indescribable, all-encompassing grayness surrounding her. 

She can only see Shaak’s violet eyes staring at her, as she says, _Come to me, my love. One last time. For Tal._

Dani opens her eyes, as a powerfully warm feeling moves through her. She smiles as she recognizes the warmth of the once-again familiar resonance. Not just the warmth that her people of the _You-kah-Torin_ are famous (or infamous) for. This warmth is reserved for her and her alone. 

The warmth of a mother for her daughter. 

Dani turns and falls into the arms of her slightly taller mother. She closes her eyes again as she places her ear against Alyysina’s chest, reveling in the strong, rhythmic beat. A beat that she thought had been stilled for eighteen years, until she had discovered that her mother was not dead, only concealed, as the mythical Chalice of Omri.

A deception necessary for her world and her mother’s life. 

Dani feels her mother’s lips in the tangles of her hair; she feels the soft words in their shared language against her scalp. She takes a deep breath, then lifts her head from her mother’s breast. 

“My Dani,” Alyys whispers. “My heart.” She pushes Dani to arm’s length and stares into her eyes with her always-obsidian gaze. “I can feel your worry. Your fear. I can always feel the undercurrent of worry in your emotions, Daaineraan Chaldea Faygan,” she says. Dani sees the warm smile grow mischievous at her full name, an instant before she rolls her own eyes.

“Mother, why the hell did you saddle me with that combination? Why do you think I shortened it to Dani when I could choose my diminutive?” she asks sharply. 

“Just be glad I didn’t name you ‘Draq’alyn, sweetie,” Alyys laughs. She looks down. “I wanted you to have some sense of history, of family from both worlds. ‘Daaineran’ is my grandmother’s name. ‘Chaldea’ is Draq’s mother’s name. We knew that you would always survive and thrive with the names of two such strong women.”

“I never knew—” Dani starts. She falls silent. Both women’s eyes move to the old pirate ship—the only ship left in the revetment. Dani glances out of the corner of her eye at her mother. The black orbs are focusing on the activity around the ship. 

“You going to be all right on that pirate’s nest, Dani?” Alyys asks. 

“I’ll be fine. We’ve reached a bit of an _understanding_ ,” Dani replies. She smiles softly. 

Alyys grins. “Would you like me to intercede on your behalf, daughter? She might be an interesting diversion.”

Dani rolls her eyes again, then softly punches her mother’s bare arm. “I saw how y’all were eyeing each other. That’s all I need.” She feels her mother grow serious. 

“What are you going to do about your vision from the healing session? Have you decided on a plan?”

Dani nods, after a moment. “Everyone seems to think that what Ahsoka saw—the old tank and the White Temple might be the place to head to. I’m not so sure.” She fights the feeling of dread away. “I think we should go—” She breaks off and looks down at the her toes. 

Alyys pulls her in close again. “You think that you should investigate another site. One that you seem to associate with your love,” she says quietly. 

“Am I being selfish, because of my feelings for Shaak?” She chokes, then regains her composure. “For my love?”

Alyys pulls her even tighter. “Love is never selfish, Dani-sweet.” She lifts her hand and pushes it inside Dani’s shirt, laying her palm flat on Dani’s heart, against the skin. “You’ve always followed your heart, my love. You’ve a huge one.” She smirks. “Even when you were running away from your uncle’s and your foster-father’s homes. I think everybody—all of your sisters of the heart, your brother of the heart—even that damned pirate knows what your heart can give. It might be time to take some for yourself.”

She reaches down and kisses her daughter gently. They are both silent as they hear the ignition sequence start on multiple engines.

* * *

Kento Mallie follows Lorhena’s familiar form along the narrow ridge trail towards the tiny clearing, just under the low summit of the volcano. A volcano that seems to be increasingly active again, with smoke and ash belching from its top, coinciding with the intense tremors slowing, but not stopping their progress. 

He stops, taking a quick drink from the water pod on his back. He wipes his brow, staring at the dark stain on his uniform sleeve. He looks up at Lorhena, who has paused, waiting for him with only a tiny bit of impatience. He grins up at her, then sobers. He realizes that even though they are of an age, she appears to show no sign of the arduous trek, even dressed as she is in full Jedi robes. 

“Come on, dear,” is all that she says. “We need to get to that Temple. I can only hope that the next part of this will be waiting for us.”

“What is the next part, Lorhena?” he asks.

“Something that I’m drawing there. At least I hope that I am.” She closes her eyes. “I think that he may be tracking you, as well.”

Kento drops the tube of the water pod. He grits his teeth, staring at her. “You mean you’re drawing the Inquisitor here?” He closes his eyes, remembering the familiarity of the young man behind his mask. “He’s our son, isn’t he?” he whispers. 

Lorhena looks at him, her eyes softening, if only for a moment. “Yes.”

“Lorhena, he’s dangerous. I watched him strangle an officer just because he insulted him. You were right, he’s fallen to the darkness. He’s a fanatic.”

Lorhena nods. “I know. He has a part to play, just like me. I just hope that I may get him back, just as he was.” She looks down. “When he was my little Starkiller.”

Kento feels his guts twist, an instant before his heart. “What have you done? What are you messing with, Lorhena?”

Her smile is otherworldly. “I’m not playing, Kento,” she says. “I’m taking what’s mine.”

His eyes widen at the slightly fanatical gleam in her dark blue eyes. Eyes that he suddenly recognizes in that young Inquisitorial novice’s eyes.

They both start at the noise of blasterfire to the west. He touches the earpiece, listens intently. He looks away, stares at the ground. “Looks like those troopers I got for you have encountered those beasts you talked of.”

She moves closer and touches him on the cheek. “Maybe three full platoons can do better against them,” she says gently. She turns away, the moment lost. “Come on. We have to switch back. The Asundrance will be angry if I don’t follow the true path. The fail safes might engage us, as well.” She turns back. “They’re just Imperials,” she adds.

Kento Mallie stands there, staring at her retreating back as she plunges into the vegetation. He wonders what he has gotten himself into, for the love of this woman, and now to save his child.

He turns off his comm to mute the screams coming over the airwaves.

* * *

Ahsoka maneuvers the old shuttle in on approach. As she does, her memory is sparked with familiar landmarks, from the ill-fated lartie ride from her position, after Anakin had pulled her out of what would’ve assuredly been the death of her and her troops. She concentrates on flying and fights the urge to close her eyes and relive the shame and pain once again. The raw disappointment rolling off of her master and his former master on the ride back to the Star Destroyer.

Not to mention the hyperspace trip back to Coruscant. She hadn’t had to face the disappointment after Anakin had ordered her to her quarters to meditate on what had happened. The GAR had another term for it. ‘Confinement to Quarters’ is what Rex had called it.

Behind her, Phygus continues to manipulate his datapad, calling up every bit of information that he can on what had drawn Ti, Croft, and the other Jedi Master, Marek to this world. Ahsoka keeps one eye on the stream of data on the HUD, in addition to the flight information. 

“So what’s the plan, Ahsoka?” he asks. He almost loses his grip on the datapad as the ship is shoved straight downward in a sudden shear. His stomach lurches. He looks over to the east at the rising smoke and ash. 

“Well, we’re going to the landing field first. Got someone who might guide us to where we need to go. Somebody from my past?”

“Wow,” he replies acerbically. “Somebody who actually still talks to you, having been exposed to you as a bratty teenager?”

“Asshole. I’ll have you know that I’m well liked.”

The snark only continues for another moment. “You still planning on heading for the place where your tank wreckage resides? Even after what I told you from Tal’s past?”

“Yeah. Just a little north of the tank. I remember it as a stand of foliage that was pretty inpenetrable—almost a wall. Something’s telling me that I need to go there, Phygus,” she replies absently. “I know Tal told you that he should’ve fought harder to go to the Red Temple, but I need to trust my instincts.” She stares at the horizon. “Something in the remnant of the archives you showed me. One phrase. ‘Distribution of the Ashla and the Bogan’.”

“I didn’t see that,” he says. 

“It was in the section that was in the Old Tongue, but not translated.”

“You understand the old Sith language? I’m impressed.”

“Yeah. It was an elective, as long as we didn’t delve too deeply into their poodoo.”

“So who’ll go to the other two sites, if that’s what it means?” he asks. 

“You are. I’m going to pick up the guide, you and Arseven’ll head to the north far enough where you can see what you can sense what’s going on at the other two, as well as keep an eye out for the Imps.”

“Oh, hell no, darlin’,” he says. “My Force sense is worse than Tal’s, plus I can’t fly for shit.”

“I think your Force sense is better than you think, Phygus,” she says. “You’ve just been shielding for so long, it’s grown rusty. Besides, I don’t think we’re going to be alone for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, that collection of twits that we left on Zeltros ain’t known for sitting idly by when there’s shit to be jumped in.” She does close her eyes and rub her fingers over her forehead. “Plus, I think that Tal may have something to say about this whole thing,” she finishes. 

“You sense him?”

“Just images. I think he’s processing the situation.”

As she finishes, she is struck by a wave of something. A taste of ashes, usually associated with the dark side—something she had sensed all through the war—so much so that she had grown used to it. A taste of anger and fear, leavened with the bright light of the Ashla in her senses.

“You feel that?” Phygus asks, as the ship is buffeted by the hot air.

“Yeah, Phygus,” she says. “I think that you’ll have no problem with this whole thing. Plus you can let Lassa know what’s going on.” She smiles as she looks out at the clearing. “There are my guides. Looks like they’ve been waiting on us.”

Both of them are silent as the shuttle wheels in for a landing, as they anticipate what they will need to do.

* * *

Commander Nulla, of the Emperor’s Inner Guard, once known as the Jedi padawan Maris Brood, stares at the four Guard-Adepts of her small force. She had already endured the questions of Captain Quarta; now apparently others were beginning to nibble away at some perceived weakness. 

“Why haven’t we tried to find the wayward apprentice?” this particular interrogator asks. She notes that his vibro-sai are out and making slight circles as he crouches on a small rock outcropping. Nulla grins slightly at the less-than-subtle hints. 

She after all, had ascended to her current rank by killing the previous commander when she had failed a task. “How do you know that we haven’t?” she asks simply. 

“Because we’ve been cooling our heels, taking care of things that ISB loyalty officers with the Ground Forces could take care of, rather than taking care of the Inquisitor’s whelp.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Sexta. I’m trying to remember where in my mandate—from the Emperor’s hands and mouth personally—did ‘senselessly kill the Inquisitor-Novice’ came into play. Oh, I know. It came at the end, after ‘investigate why he hasn’t succeeded yet’.

“The Emperor, and by extension Lord Vader, sent him here to accomplish a mission. We’re to find out his progress. Unspoken in those orders is the mandate to help him accomplish that mission. Only after we see that he’s failed or about to fail, then, and only then, do we carry out the Emperor’s justice.”

“I think that you’re soft,” Sexta says. 

Nulla turns to him. A slow smile moves onto her features. She has a slight memory of this particular problem lying under her as she rode him, her nails ripping his chest. The smile grows as a tingle starts in her Force sense.

“No, maybe she’s just intelligent, Redskull,” a new voice. The four Guard-Adepts move to ready positions with their various weaponry. 

Maris Brood remains still as a tall figure walks out from the forest. A figure clad in a sleeveless jerkin, with the Inquisitorial cog on each side of the chest. Eyes that nearly match her own in their red-tinted darkness, stare at the Guard.

She sees his mask twitch, as if the lips behind it quirk into a smile at her. He bows. 

“Inquisitor,” she says politely.

“Commander,” he replies, equally as pleasant. “Do you happen to share your minion’s assessment of my progress?”

“Not at this time, Novice,” she says. She sees his eyes narrow at the change of title. “We’ll see what the day brings,” she finishes. 

After a moment, he nods. “It may not take the day. I need transport to the northeast, to the base of the volcano.”

“Might be problematic,” she say. “The volcano’s causing some havoc with flight. We’ve got some speederbikes. I was about to go round up some troopers to go with us.”

His eyes gleam with mirth. She smiles at him. “That might be problematic. Somebody just tasked several platoons on a wild goose chase. I think they’ve all been appetizers to our main course.”

“We have a _Gozanti_ standing by,” she says. “Got a platoon of stormtroopers, plus a platoon of fleeties,” she says. She turns to the other Adepts. “Quarta, take two squads and follow the Inquisitor.”

She and the Novice start and look at one another. Their Force senses are screaming with energy. They close their eyes. After a moment, they open them and nod. “On second thought, I think you need to hold your troops here, until we get more information, Quarta. Also, see if you can collect any survivors of the troops from the garrison to you here.” she says. 

Quarta nods, raising her comm to her lips. Nulla turns to the heretofore silent Adept, an electrostaff held at rest under his arm. “Octa, take two squads to the west,” she says, touching her comm to Octa’s. “See if you can find anything at these coordinates. She looks at the remaining adept, a younger male. “Dua, you’ll move back to the ship, with the rest. Be ready to go where we need to. I may need you to head north, over that wall of foliage.”

“What about me?” Sexta asks.

“I have a special task for you,” she says. She lifts her left hand and yanks. Sexta is yanked from his feet and propelled through the air. Her right hand lifts, pulling one saber and simultaneously igniting it.

The red blade impales the argumentative Adept. She deactivates the blade and opens her hand. He falls into a heap. 

She turns to the Novice. “Inquisitor, I’ll have the platoon of stormtroopers meet us there.”

The Inquisitor turns to the other Adepts. “We possibly have two other places that we’ll need troops. With the Force’s will, we’ll be able to find out what this disturbance is.”

He turns without another word and moves towards a bike. After a moment, Nulla follows him. She climbs on the bike behind him and wraps her arms around his middle.

She can feel the eyes of the three remaining Adepts on her back as they move towards the north.

* * *

Bryne Covenant brings the Draq’stone down over a high mountain on the lifeless rock of one of Felucia’s closer moons. His eyes play over a screen; matching the dimensions of the ship with that of a notch on the side of the mountain. The forward third of the ship clears the edge of the notch as the repulsors engage, throwing up clouds of fine moondust. 

There is silence as Deuce powers down the engines. Bryne closes his eyes and lifts his head. He takes a deep breath and releases it, cautiously opening his Force sense. The images and sensations that had marked his last few weeks apparently have decided that they would be better served by keeping him in the dark. He opens it deeper, in spite of the image of darkness that had been burbling in the background in the last few days. He knows that long practice, even before the cataclysm of the Jedi, had left his shielding as almost an afterthought, an accompaniment to the tiny bit of obscuring of his features that left him unmemorable except to only a few. 

At least it had until all of this poodoo with his dreams and the twisting of the reality of his memories. 

He feels a smile lift one side of his face—a warm example, rather than the usual crooked version, with just hints of snark and sarcasm. His memory moves unerringly to a morning spent in bed with Ahsoka, his eyes closed but his mind able to link with hers as she turned her Force sense off, to experience his features as most people did. He remembers the sensation of her cool hand playing over his skin. 

He shakes his head, pushing those thoughts away. He grins sheepishly as he reaches down and adjusts himself, trying to sit more comfortably. Another remnant of the healing sessions with Lyndia—sessions that had brought many other thoughts to his mind. Thoughts that had helped him, in spite of the physical manifestations, to focus on his memories. 

Another warm sensation moves into his mind, helping to dispel what the thoughts of Zeltron healing had brought to him. His mind locks on a presence that he had only had inklings of since that day on Kamino. Inklings generally felt when he had gotten himself into deep shit in some way, shape, or fashion. He grins. _Rarely._

 _What do you mean ‘rarely’, my child of the Hunt_? comes the warm, familiar voice in his mind. His breath comes in a shudder as he tries to analyze his feelings, as the owner of the voice had always taught him. 

He opens his eyes, looking down at himself. As soon as Deuce and he had gotten them into the air, he had gone to the owner’s suite and pulled the hidden panel in the walk-in closet away. He nods as he runs his hands run over the green-black of his _beskar’gam._

A slightly bent warble of binary breaks into his consciousness. He turns to the ex-Imperial droid. A by-product of Baldrick’s repurposing of Deuce, after a particularly successful undercover mission for the Corellian Rangers by Bryne in his first days, was a modestly fluid interpretation of binary and gender-selection algorithms. He grins as he hears the smattering of Basic that intersperses with the warbles, hoots, boops, and beeps. He looks at the indicated screen. His heart flips, as it usually does, whenever thoughts of who might be on that battered _Nu_ -class passing by, move into his being. 

A twist manifests in that heart as he realizes that he cannot sense that blue-orange light—Ahsoka’s avatar in his mind. 

He flips a switch, feels the whine of servos as the fighterpod’s bay door opens behind the cockpit. He rises and turns towards the door. He lifts his helmet, as well as the glasses with the inset data monocles in the lenses. As he touches the door switch, everything in his vision, in his mind, goes black.

* * *

Lassa stands in the cockpit of her home. She smiles as she feels the familiar rumble of the sublight engines going through their ignition sequence. She closes her eyes as the vibrations move through her boots, moving up her body. The old, modified CR-75—fairly close to the CEC CR-90, especially with all of the extras she and her two predecessors—the original captains of the Blood Bone Order—had put into her, begins to come to life. Lassa takes a deep breath as the memories of the last near decade on this ship, first as a crewmember, then as captain, cascade through her mind. 

She sees Thyla standing by the plotting table/navicomputer. Thyla smiles, then gestures with her head towards the conn. Lassa turns, a smile flowing over her own face. The young Alderaani officer, Meglann Florlin—now apparently known to the crew as ‘Junior’ stands behind the two pilots’ seats. Lassa is about to say something, but the look on Meglann’s face closes her mouth. 

A look that she herself had once had when she had stood where Meglann does now. A look of wonder, of consternation—of fear. 

She sees Meglann shake her head, then move towards the co-pilot’s seat. Lassa walks behind her and places her hands on her shoulders. She feels the tension in the thin shoulders. She reaches over and kisses Meglann on her small, almost dainty ear. “Nope, kitten,” she says. “Ahsoka seems to have a great deal of confidence in you. You get to drive.” She squeezes the younger woman’s shoulders tightly. “I’ll be right next to you. Don’t fucking dent my boat,” she warns. 

Meglann sits in the left seat and begins to move her hands over the controls. She picks up a datapad and begins to move down the the checklist. 

The hatch opens behind her. She feels the warmth in her innards. She turns. Her eyes widen as the warmth multiplies. A male Zeltron stands next to Faygan. He is of medium height, about Meglann’s or Thyla’s. He looks at her with amusement, his arms relaxed. His gray eyes observe her with a professional analysis. His manner almost screams ‘cop’.

Lassa laughs as she returns his appraisal. She realizes where she has seen a younger version—a version of another gender—of that appraising look. On a healer who had just given much of herself for a friend. 

“Rhayme, this is Jaten Gorlute. He works for Zeltros. For the Chalice. My mother has agreed that he and his little band of Elementals should help us,” Dani says. She smirks. “To keep us from killing each other, if nothing else.”

“May take more than him. Of course if he’d like to frisk me—”

Dani rolls her eyes. Gorlute smiles. “Might be fun. But business first.”

“Elementals?” Meglann asks. 

“Bit of silliness. Codenames and such,” he says, his voice dry. He looks at Dani. “You wouldn’t known anything about that, would you, _Ishta_??” He moves his look to Meglann. “Or you, _Ina_?”

Dani reaches up and touches his lips. “No, _Iron_. We wouldn’t know a thing about that.”

“So do we have a plan?” Lassa asks, ignoring Meglann sticking her tongue out behind Gorlute’s back, flicking it between two upraised fingers at Dani.

“Yeah. Phygus sent Ano some stuff that Bryne told him about the last time he was there.” Dani looks down. “With Ti,” she whispers. 

Lassa nods as Dani gathers herself. “Yeah, college girl there read it to me. Scintillating stuff.”

Dani ignores her. “There are three sites associated with whatever it is that might be doing all of this. We think—your Quartermaster,” at this, she looks at Jaten, who shows no sign of offense, “might be headed to the one nearest her old tank—the northern-most site.”

“Is that where we’re headed?” Lassa asks. 

“Some of us. Phygus said that there was a _Gozanti_ that’s jumped into orbit. You might have to keep them occupied.” Dani looks down, then looks squarely at Lassa. “I think that we might have to cover all of the spots. That’s why Jaten and his group are going to meet us there.”

Lassa narrows her eyes. “Where are you going?” she asks. 

Dani moves over to her. She reaches up and touches Lassa’s face. “It’s nothing personal. I think that I have to go with them and get to the Gray Temple in the west, directly.”

Lassa nods. “Something about Ti?”

Dani is silent. 

Meglann stands up. “We’ve got somebody out gathering some extra help. I’ve got somebody coming who can cover Ahsoka with me.”

Thyla moves up to join the group. “Ritambiggo and I sent out our own feelers with Meglann and Dani’s little recruiting party. Nola will meet Biggo there with them, as well as Boge and Murta, from Covenant’s little band of miscreants.”

Dani nods. “They’ll cover the Red Temple to the east, at the base of the volcano. She grins. “The ex-government official and the two ex-cops are responsible for stealing a ship to get Biggo’s gang there.”

“I’ll be with you on the ship, Lassa,” Thyla says. “Along with Adis for any fighting with the _Gozanti.”_

Lassa rolls her eyes. “Great. Apparently, we’re getting the band back together.”


	19. That, with an instant’s cry, your heart, made young again,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Once again, Phygus finds himself biting back his last meal, in this case a protein pack. “I can tell you’re Ahsoka’s droid. You’re about to get my lunch on the console.”_
> 
> _+“Quit complaining, small unit,”+ comes the retort. +“How do you know she’s not my Togruta?”+_
> 
> _“Point taken, bud.”_
> 
> _+“I can’t shake them,”+ Arseven says. Closer energy bursts punctuate his words._
> 
> _A cold, impersonal voice comes over the speakers. “Unknown vessel. You’ve entered an interdiction area. Shut down and await boarding craft. This is your only—”_
> 
> _The speaker suddenly crackles with static, as the two red symbols disappear from the screen, replaced by a green version. Phygus turns just in time to see another Clone War relic arc in through the remnants of the two V-wings, the wide green stripe around the length of the ship foremost in Phygus’s consciousness._
> 
> _A deeper, triumphant beeping sounds in the speakers._

**The Past**

Taliesin Croft floats. 

His mind struggles with the sensations of being pulled through the air, rather than falling to his fiery end. It marvels at the warmth—not the _oh-shit-I’m-burning-alive_ type, nor the type that Lan Alesha’s mouth engendered as it engulfed his—

He shakes his head, trying to focus on identifying those feelings. _You really do think with your cock, bud,_ he thinks. He opens his mind as broadly as he has ever opened it, focusing on Ti’s soft voice with the slight mix of Coruscanti and the accent of her clan-region, Tiane’n, in her words. _Search your feelings, Taliesin. They will always mark the right way._

His heart clinches with pride at his selection as her padawan. He remembers Plo Koon watching as Ti was finally able to clip her old padawan beads to his hair—at fifteen and not yet a Shadow, his face was uncovered by hair as it is now—her hands cool on his head, then his cheek when they were in private. He remembers the look in her eyes, a mix of pain and joy, belied with her usual serene look.

The warmth is cut by another sensation from that day. A young Zabrak, perhaps three years younger than he, stands off to the side, her dark eyes lit with anger. With envy. He searches his memory for her name.

Maris Brood. Now the absent padawan of Lorhena Marek. Thoughts of Marek triggers another sensation in closer proximity than the memory of his choosing as a padawan. His brain freezes at the sensations of anger and strife, located between the Gray Temple, their original destination to the southwest of the chasm, and the now-fallen ledge located nearer to the Red Temple.

 _No_ , he thinks. He realizes that he hasn’t just thought the word. His vocal cords strain as he screams it. 

_Master! No! Don’t! You don’t need to fight her!_ he sends through the bond. _Let go—I’m alright!_

He feels his tears start as he receives no thoughts from Ti in his mind. Another presence shoves into his senses. He gasps as a sensation of tendrils moving into his brain flashes in his mind’s eye. He feels pressure building on his Force sense—not painful, just an all-enclosing shield building between him and all but a narrow band of connection with any other Jedi.

Including Ti.

As the pressure builds around him, surrounding him in its power, his mind tracks to a wave of memories. Some that he has never seen; from the depths of his mind and his life. 

A word taps on his skull, as if trying to shoulder its way in. The _Asundrance._

He sees an infant, held in the arms of a powerful young woman with green eyes and a small knife-scar in the dark skin parallel and above her left eyebrow. He sees the same woman looking down him—her eyes identical to his. A blurrier image of a tall male with much lighter skin looking down at him; his own gray eyes shining with emotion.

His heart screams as he feels himself yanked away, of clouds and mist forming over other images. An image of an old man in armor, the pulp of a fruit decorating his angry features. Of another, younger face over armor handing him over to a very tall man with piercing eyes. 

The mists close in on his memory. Only the sense of that word—Asundrance—encompasses his brain and heart. He does what his master had always told him to do. 

He searches his feelings. His mind reels as he realizes that the Asundrance is conscious.

The last sensation he feels is that of a missing piece in the consciousness.

Something in the middle.

* * *

Ahsoka tightens her grip on the sidestick as the ship yaws and rolls violently in the updrafts from the spewing vents around the Red Temple of Felucia. She bites back a fleeting grin as she hears Phygus curse behind her. 

“It’s true. You are a worse pilot than Taliesin,” he says between gritted teeth. “I want my money back for this flight.”

“The flight attendant will be by with the drinks cart,” Ahsoka says absently. She feels his snark turn to concern as waves in the Force mirror those from the volcano. 

“That doesn’t feel right,” he observes. “Even I can feel that.”

“I know, Phygus. We’re in unknown territory. I can’t even tell what’s dark and what’s light,” she replies. 

It is her turn to curse as the Nu flips on its back. From the sounds coming from behind her, she wonders how long before the remains of the leftover _shura_ pastry that Baldrick had consumed in front of her decorates the canopy. She fights and is able to right the vessel before the redecorating occurs. 

Her eyes lock on a flash of gray in her vision as well as her Force sense. She shifts the ship further to the south, just as her instincts tell her. Her face twists in a brief smile as a the flash in her mind shifts to a familiar tri-colored light. The light remains in her head, but without any ability to locate him. 

“I’ve managed to capture all of the texts that I could find on the Asundrance, between Ano and me,” Phygus observes. If he can detect Covenant’s Force signature, he gives no sign. “I can still come with you, Ahsoka,” he adds softly. 

She closes her eyes at his words. She can tell how much it had taken for him to give voice to the struggle with his fear. “I know, Phygus. But I need you to be able to give me whatever you can find to help me fight whatever this is.” She grins, allowing the touch of snark into her voice. “I need your brains rather than your brawn,” she says. 

“I’m glad that you finally admit that I’m smarter than you. It’s only a matter of time before you’re showing me your boobs.”

He chokes as she flips the shuttle again. “You just keep thinking that, bud,” she says. “Oops. Hold on,” she adds belatedly.

“On second thought, they’re probably not all that memorable,” he manages. He looks as if he is biting back the bile of meat and spice in the reflection of the mirror at the top of the canopy.

“I have references,” she says. She sees his eyes widen in the mirror as he feels the wind on his face. 

“What’re you doing? Close the canopy.”

“Gotta run, sport,” she says. “I’ve got a somewhat memorable ass to save,” she says. 

“No accounting for taste, darlin’,” he says. 

“Take care, Phygus,” she says. “Arseven, look out for him and get out of here if things go tits-up.”

“You had to say it, didn’t you?” Phygus says. 

He realizes that he is speaking to an empty seat. 

“May the Force be with you,” he whispers to the air.

* * *

Tarre Tredecima, once known as Drop—a member of small band of Republic clonetroopers designated as Null-ARCs, watches Talle with amusement as she plays a hologame on his datapad. His sharp eyes manage to keep from rolling at the two avatars of her competition. Two slicers, each with varying degrees of social awkwardness seem to be beating his daughter. He smiles with pride at how close the score is. 

A daughter who appears to be about ten or so, but actually is only maybe six years old, if that. He lets his breath out as he gives thanks to whoever will listen that the advanced aging of the baseline clones isn’t present in his little girl, at least not for awhile. A daughter born of a cruel experiment, using his DNA, as well as that of his love, Jedi Knight Elle Jaquindo.

He never calls Talle a clone. She is his daughter; she is his heart. He smiles as he thinks of Elle, now that he knows she at least survived Order 66. Knowledge gained from recovered memories from Ahsoka, early in her career as Fulcrum. Memories that had come with the knowledge of a natural born daughter, Faith. Something he’d never thought that was possible, given the longnecks’ propensity for ‘proprietary ownership’. 

He shakes his head as Ritaambiggo ambles back over to them. She ruffles Talle’s hair, something that would have brought a look of disdain for anyone—especially anyone named Drop—but is tolerated with a warm smile for a half-second, before she turns back to the game.

[“Got the contacts we were looking for, Big One,” she says.] _At least I hope that’s what she’s calling me. Shyriwook is Croft’s thing_.

He looks over behind her. A nearly post-adolescent Red Nikto stands behind her, looking at Talle and him with sharp eyes. An older Weequay female stands behind him, her hands on his shoulders protectively. She, for her part, looks at him with suspicion and hostility. She moves one hand to the well-worn DL-18 on her hip.

He holds his hands up, palm outward. “You must be Lassa’s old master-at-arms,” he says.

“Who you calling old, shitwit?” she asks in her grating voice. “You one of Lassa’s castoff loverboys?”

He holds his hand over Talle’s ears. “No, dear,” he replies. “I’m one of her ‘close-but-no-cigars’.”

For a moment the Weequay looks at Drop. Her eyes move up and down, a slight smile of appraisal on her face. “It looks like you got all your standard equipment, clone. Your deece defective or something?”

Talle snorts as he realizes that he has dropped his hands from her ears. He hastily moves them back, but she evades him. “Stop it old man,” she says. “I know you’re talking about when you didn’t have sex with Lassa.”

He feels his ears grow hot. The master-at-arms grins broadly. “Got you there, bud. This is Gri, late midshipman for the Blood Bone Order. Good comms and signals officer. I’m Sohlwey. En Sohlwey. I guess we’re doing so well on our own that we can probably fit you in,” she says, the dry inflection apparent even with her accent.

He looks at Gri—who is actually older than Drop thought, maybe twenty or so. He grins at the wide-eyed look, then the protective touch of the MAA. “How about you, bud? You good?”

“Yessir,” Gri says. 

“Well, let’s get going. A champion fixer is uh, arranging passage for you. I’ve got another job to do, on Mandalore. If you really need someone to save your asses the right way, I guess I’ll come. But I might be the only one able to do this particular job.”

“Is the girl the brains of the operation?” Sohlwey asks. 

“Yep,” the ‘brains’ answers without hesitation.

A low rumbling sound interrupts the laughter. The building shudders. His eyes flash at a small crack appearing in the sandstone wall.

“There’s your ride, I think,” he says. 

“I thought you said there was a champion fixer getting us a ride,” Sohlwey says skeptically. 

Drop’s grin widens. “Yep. She’s just a shitty pilot. Hopefully the other two will do the flying.”

* * *

Phygus lifts his eyes from one of his datapads as he rests in the front seat of the cockpit. His other datapad streams a constant flow of arcane information. He focuses on the HUD at the top of the console. A comforting beep reminds him that Arseven, hooked into the old shuttle’s systems, is on the job. 

_That’s good. Seeing that I haven’t flown in years_. There is a chime from the datapad running the hologame with Talle and Ano. He nods at the Aurabesh text in the private chat. 

_The old man says that the cavalry’s on its way_ , he reads. _Whatever that means_. He grins as he thinks of the young girl concentrating on the game, while flying the tri-winged gunship away from Ord Mantell. 

Another avatar requests entry to the private game. His eyes narrow at the screen name. 

_PhygusIsATurd_ flashes a message to him. _We’re on our way kids, Got the whole band back together._

He starts to type back, but someone else beats him to it. _They won’t get there if you’re flying_ , types _Blueblazez1,_

_Really, Ano?_ replies the newcomer, _How’s the sex education classes with Dani coming?_ Nola’s avatar texts.

_Probably better than yours. At least I have some natural skills at it._

Phygus rolls his eyes. _Okay kids. Just because this game has better encryption than even most military grade, doesn’t mean we need to abuse it._

 _Yeah, you’d be the expert in self-abuse_ , snarks Nola.

 _You both know that there’s a ten-year-old on this game, right_? he types. 

_Besides you_? comes from _ReelBrains_ , the preteen in question. Apparently Nola is not the only one with a propensity for getting the last word. 

The chat room falls silent as Ano, Talle, and he concentrate on the game. At least until a slightly more alarmed beeping from Arseven starts. 

He stares at the HUD, as two red arrowhead avatars appear. The _Beskad_ shudders as two green beams intersect with her shields. +“We’ve got company,”+ says Arseven. Phygus’s stomach twists as the droid takes action. 

_Gotta run kids_ , he sends to the other three. _Got company._

 _Be careful, little man_ , Nola types. _We’ll be there soon._

 _Might not be here_ , he responds as Arseven jinks the shuttle to the right and then up. Phygus manages to slide the two datapads into their holsters, before grabbing the launch handles inset into the console, being careful to keep his hands away from the sidestick and throttles. 

Once again, Phygus finds himself biting back his last meal, in this case a protein pack. “I can tell you’re Ahsoka’s droid. You’re about to get my lunch on the console.”

+“Quit complaining, small unit,”+ comes the retort. +“How do you know she’s not my Togruta?”+

“Point taken, bud.”

+“I can’t shake them,”+ Arseven says. Closer energy bursts punctuate his words. 

A cold, impersonal voice comes over the speakers. “Unknown vessel. You’ve entered an interdiction area. Shut down and await boarding craft. This is your only—”

The speaker suddenly crackles with static, as the two red symbols disappear from the screen, replaced by a green version. Phygus turns just in time to see another Clone War relic arc in through the remnants of the two V-wings, the wide green stripe around the length of the ship foremost in Phygus’s consciousness. 

A deeper, triumphant beeping sounds in the speakers.

* * *

Bryne Covenant opens his eyes slowly. He senses the vibrations of the cannons firing; the maneuvering that Deuce seems to be putting the ship through. The noises and vibrations seem to play into his consciousness, as if from a distance. He realizes that his right ear rests on the deck; he manages to lift his head to find himself on the ship. 

As he does, he feels the deck shift beneath his body. He places his hands on the carpet. For an instant, he sees the comfortable and familiar surroundings of the main lounge/open galley. A place that he had spent a great deal of time in, especially when he or Dani had needed space. Space for her to exercise her people’s interpretation of joy with others, or for either of them to be alone with their demons.

With their lost. 

He smiles as the warmth of her care pervades his memories. Not just those that Zeltrons are known for—there had been plenty of that, but of the simple comfort of her arms, of the resonance finding whatever feelings of joy and happiness that could still be found in both of them, and amplifying them. Reflecting them, helping them both heal, as they simply existed. 

As he remembers, a small part of him, the part in the here and now, rather than in the warm arms of Daaineran Faygan, feels the texture of the carpet shift slightly under his fingers, even covered in their fireproof gloves. At the same time he feels the temperature on the skin of his face. He closes his eyes, reluctantly pushing Dani’s laughing eyes and smiles away from his mind’s eye. 

Bryne feels a warm breeze on his face as the moisture in the air increases. He keeps his eyes tightly closed; he’s almost afraid to open them. He feels his entire being shift. As he shakes his head to send the sensations of unbalance away, he feels a wave of nausea flow over him. He manages not to expel whatever contents might actually be left in his stomach.

He takes a deep breath, then exhales it as slowly as he had drawn it. He hears Deuce’s deep hooting distantly. He opens his eyes.

His nose is assaulted first. The warm, fungal smell of the short time that he had spent here moves through his mind—a smell that evokes the ancient, primitive plantlife of this world. His eyes lock on the nearest gigantic, translucent plant that towers over him, its translucence broken only by splashes of brilliant colors. 

His mind is suddenly assaulted by a scream as he feels his connection with the Force activate with full intensity. In that sense, he sees a Rutian Twi’lek, her blue skin glowing in the low light stopping and turning as if hearing a noise. 

An instant before multiple blaster bolts intersect with her slim body. The horror on her face; a face that he had grown up with, even though he was slightly younger than she was. 

He doesn’t see who had slaughtered her, but he knows who it was. Ahsoka had told him of her contact with Bly, Aayla’s loyal Marshal-Commander, on Zeltros. Of his agony at what he had done under the control of the darkness. 

He feels the essence of Aayla Secura fade in his mind. He senses a new presence, standing close to him, almost close enough to touch. He feels an actual touch on his shoulder. One that he had felt so many times, as the slightly cooler hands had taught him—guided him.

Bryne hears a gasp in the quietness of the primitive forest. He realizes that it comes in his own voice. He slowly turns. As he is in the middle of his turn, he hears the warm, slightly accented voice. An accent prevalent on her world, at least in the valleys of her clan-lands.

“Hello, my child. It’s been awhile.”

* * *

Nulla feels the heat on her face as the speederbike approaches the rumbling volcano. She reaches out to the Force. Her eyes widen as she detects a shift in the Novice’s emotions. Where there had been the same darkness that she felt in herself, she feels something she hadn’t detected in almost a half-decade.

After a moment, she feels the return to complete darkness. No, she thinks, not completely.

She tries to analyze the tiny flicker of light in him. She remembers few instances of this particular emotion. She closes her eyes. Her mind’s eye locks on a particular face. A human woman, her dark blue eyes staring at Nulla, her lips pursed with disapproval. She grits her teeth as the flash of emotion matches that of the woman—her former master, Lorhena Marek. 

“Who the hell are you?” she asks sharply. 

Even through the darkness, in both of them, she feels the sensation of a sardonic smile playing over his lips and in his signature. “I’m a loyal servant of the Emperor,” he says, “just like you, Padawan Brood.”

“That woman is dead, Thirteen,” she says. She draws a knife from her boot, placing it a centimeter from a small gap in his backplate, right above his kidney. “How do you know that name?”

“You’d be surprised at what the Force tells me here, Commander,” he says. 

She absorbs this in silence, but keeps the knife out. She knows that he can feel that her left arm is no longer around his middle. 

“You do know that I could kill you before you insert that blade into my back, right?” he asks dryly. “Or, you would have to sling my body off of the bike and take control before you crashed.”

She smiles. “That might be fun. Exhilarating even.”

“It might hurt, as well.” She feels his lungs expand with a deep breath. “I’m not one of your Adepts, darling. I’m not a threat to you,” he finishes. 

“I’m not concerned with a threat to me, ‘dear’,” she replies. “Only to the Emperor’s will.”

“Thanks for the platitude, Nulla,” he says. “I’m not a threat to anyone. I’ll do my job. It’s what I’m doing right now.”

“It doesn’t feel like it. How do you know Lorhena Marek?” She feels him stiffen against her right arm around his middle. 

“How do you know that name?” he asks, mirroring her early words. 

“She was Brood’s master,” she replies after a moment.

He laughs. “Do you really think that you have to talk about yourself in the third person?” he asks. 

She feels herself grin sheepishly. She returns the knife to her boot, then circles his middle with the left arm. As she does, the speeder lurches and shifts upward about three meters. She feels him fight with the controls. As he does, they are both assaulted with bombarding waves through the Force. 

Nulla hears screams echoing both through her Force sense and in her ears. Her heart twists as she realizes that the screams come from both of them. She feels the speeder lurch downward and to the left as pressure in the Force compresses both of them. 

She sees a burst of energy lance from their right, striking the control vanes on the front of the speeder. She clinches her thighs on the saddle and tightens her grip on Thirteen as the speeder starts to roll. She releases her grip on both and leaps clear. She manages to pull the Inquisitor with her. 

As she hurtles towards the ground, her last image is of a figure standing on a slight rise, her hands pointed at them. 

A figure that looks suspiciously like that of her master, Lorhena Marek. A master thought long-dead.

Everything goes black. Black tinged with red.


	20. Was crucified for ever—those poor arms enfolding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“How?” Bryne cries. “There’s nothing but darkness. He slumps to his knees. “How?” he whispers again._
> 
>  
> 
> _Ti lowers herself to him, taking him in her arms. “I don’t understand fully,” she says. “I know that I left this existence on Kamino. I don’t understand how I’m able to be here. I’m part of the Cosmic Force.” She looks down. “I’ve seen myself die in multiple ways—just as different rumors of my death have been swirling. I’ve seen myself being stabbed by a dark figure on Coruscant. Grievous killed me on his ship as Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi watched.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _She brings her hand to his cheek. “I’ve seen something new as well. I see myself falling into a pit near where you fell the last time, battling an all-powerful light and darkness.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _He feels himself stiffen. “I won’t let that happen, Master,” he says fiercely._
> 
>  
> 
> _She doesn’t reply, merely holds him tighter. “I’ve felt a part of you here, as well,” he hears in his ear, “a part that you may have left.”_

Ahsoka shifts her ass on the creature that is quickly taking her to her objective. She manages to keep the protein bar she had eaten down; she who could eat a greasy nerf-burger while maneuvering her Jedi fighter in combat. She had seen some of her clonetroopers riding the gelagrub on this world, but she had never had the dubious pleasure. Dilanni had eschewed his loping tee-muss for the gelatinous creatures, saying that they could move a great deal faster on the multi-legged creature. Dilanni’s son Geordai had smiled shyly and told her that the ride would take time to get used to. She might not be acclimated by the time they reach the Temple, about ten kilometers away.

She grins as she remembers his shyness. Dilanni had laughed and teased his son; his voice warm and the affection evident. Another thing she would’ve never thought possible, based on their first interactions so many years ago. She closes her eyes as she hears Anakin Skywalker’s distinctive voice in her head. _People can change Snips—they can grow_. She hears the grin in his remembered voice. _I thought that you were pretty useless._

She laughs, pushing the grief away that usually accompanies thoughts of her master. Her expression grows soft as she thinks of grief that had been present up until a year or two before. When the man that she seeks to save from the Force’s mists, had fallen back into her life. Ahsoka closes her eyes, wondering if she is going against the Force’s will, as Obi-Wan’s master, Qui-Gon Jinn, had stressed in their brief contact in her mind, when she was unconscious in bacta. She feels the ground shift under her, manages to hold on.

They climb over a slight rise; one that she remembers. As they reach the crest, her eyes fall on the remnants of the old Republic turbo tank. Her mind goes to the technical designation—the HAVw A6 Juggernaut. Her heart twists as she sees the explosion of her tank, from her view above the clearing. She knows that she is to the right of her position, where the droid forces had flanked her.

Where she had missed them, so intent on pushing forward she had been.

Ahsoka feels herself falling, as she hears Anakin’s voice again. _You failed, Ahsoka. You were a failure_. She sobs at the words. _Imagine my embarrassment and shame at having to tell the Council of your failure_. In a darker corner of her mind, a tiny light wonders if she actually had heard those words.

 _You didn’t, Runt_ , says a different warm voice in her mind. _As much as I hate this damned phrase, I think it applies here. Search your feelings. Do you think the person that Anakin was would allow him to be so hateful? That he would feel this?_

She feels her heartbeat calm at his words. She realizes that the light in her head has taken on the green, purple, and gold colors associated with him. An indicator that his Force sense is active.

And near.

She comes back to herself. She realizes that she is on the ground. Dilanni and Geordai look down at her, worry evident on their faces. She smiles up at them, as reassuring as she can be. She reaches up and allows both of them to pull her up. She playfully musses Geordai’s forehead. She looks over to their left, at something else she hadn’t noticed in her narrow focus.

Her heart stops as she sees what she had always thought were ruins in the long wall of trees, vines, and bushes..

A complete wall—all of it the color of light stands in front of her, no evidence of ruination. A white totem of some sorts rises slightly above the middle. The vegetation and the ridge extend to the north and south, past the ridge that she stands on, where the droids had charged from.

Ahsoka takes a deep breath as a tiny bit of darkness—of gray as well, intrudes into the light in her mind.

* * *

The _Gozanti_ -class transport holds station between the two largest moons of Felucia. The commander stares at the status boards over the shoulders of the two pilots, listening to the transmissions from the surface. She brings her gloved hand up to her forehead as she listens to the dry recitation of the sergeant of one squad of fleet troopers describing the what the two platoons of troopers were doing. These two platoons of her precious troops, including one of the rare independent platoons of stormtroopers, had been commandeered by the Emperor’s Guard officers with no explanation.

She rolls her eyes as she thinks of the arrogance of the Guards—the _Adepts_ as they had called themselves. She wonders if one of them had been on that ship. She pushes that happy thought from her mind as she focuses on the fleet trooper’s words. “— we’re standing by here with two of the Guard officers, Captain,” he says. “We’re starting to get some stragglers from the remainder of three garrison platoons that were commandeered by some ISB agent for whatever reason. They’ve been pretty well chewed up by something. Literally.”

“Captain, we’ve got incoming signals from hyperspace,” a sensor operator says. She turns her attention to him. His eyes narrow with concentration. “I’m detecting a ship on the surface of that small moon.”

“Show me,” she says tersely, moving over to his station. She cuts the sergeant off on the comm channel. She follows the technician’s finger.

“Looks like an old Corellian ship,” he says. “Not getting too much energy signature from it.

A shape flashes by in the viewport of the cockpit. A small, nondescript freighter flashes close by, headed towards the surface. She moves back behind the pilots. “Move us to a pursuit course.” She turns to the comm panel. “Hail that ship. Tell them to prepare to be boarded.”

“Uh, Captain, what are we going to board them with?”asks her XO in the pilot’s position.

“You let me worry about that,” she says sharply. She manages to tighten her grip on the backrest of the pilots’ seats as her ship shudders.

“Captain! We’re under attack!” the sensor operator shouts. “Big signal arcing in on our port quarter.”

“Shields,” the Captain responds quickly. “Forget the small freighter. What’s engaging us?”

“There!” says her XO, pointing. The Captain’s eyes widen as a larger Corellian ship; a modified CR-75, or even a newer CR-90 shifts to bring its turrets to bear on her vessel. Her eyes fall on the matte black color, a thin red stripe circling the entire ship. Just forward of the massive engines, a crimson skull symbol stares at her, bisected by the red stripe.

“ID on that ship,” she yells. Her XO curses at her as she slams her hand on his shoulder.

“Nothing, Captain,” the sensor operator says. “She’s not broadcasting any signature. It’s like she’s not there, except for the skin paints on the ship itself. He holds a hand to his earpiece. “The Guard officers are requesting air support. The other freighter seems to be giving them some fits as it comes in for a landing.”

“Tell them we’ve got problems of our own. Engage that marauder,” she says.

“I do have an ID on the first ship that’s almost on the surface. It matches the ID of a ship reported stolen on Ord Mantell. A TaggeCo ship.”

Lieutenant Jest Areska, newly promoted captain of the _Gozanti_ , wonders how much longer she’ll keep this command as the black and red newcomer pummels her ship

**The Past**

Shaak Ti manages to block an overhand swing from Lorhena. She had given up trying to reason with Marek several slashes ago, focusing more on trying to find Taliesin. Her mind does mark the fact that Marek’s lightsaber skills had suddenly improved from the last time that they had sparred. As far as she could tell, Lorhena had never been known as a saber master; she had been known for other skills.

Skills such as being able to submerge herself into another role, as well as the ability to shield her Force sense from prying Force users. That particular skill is on display right now, helping to frustrate Ti’s ability to reach her through the fog of the mixed darkness and light that suddenly seems to be surrounding them both. Ti fights against the darkness threatening to swallow her.

A tickle touches the back of her neck. She raises her eyebrow markings as her Force sense scans over, if not through Lorhena’s. Someone, or something, seems to be present. She feels the other presence pushing at Lorhena’s consciousness.

Lorhena doesn’t appear to be fighting the presence. Ti can’t tell if the presence is the source of the darkness she is sensing. As she attempts to focus, she very nearly misses a thrust and strike combination aimed at her chest, then at her head. She backpedals, realizing that she has managed to get close to the chasm that had claimed Croft.

As she stabilizes her footing, a warm presence comes through the training bond. _Not quite claimed, Master_ , Croft says.

Taliesin! she sends back. _Where are you? Are you alright?_

_I’m okay, I think, Master. As far as where I am, I ain’t sure. I don’t think I could give this place a five-fork rating._

Ti manages to grin as she parries Lorhena’s saber, at his usual impudent tone, even in her mind. _Perhaps, my Padawan, it’s because you’re there._

 _Ah, Master. You wound me. I know how to hold my pinky out on my saber_ , he replies.

She allows her grin to stay steady as she fights. _Good. If you’re being a smartass, you’re fine_. She feels him grow serious. As he does, she senses another presence near wherever he is. Her eyes widen as she recognizes the presence—one with the same signature as the presence she senses in her battle.

_I’m okay, Master Ti. I’m fighting whatever it is, but I may have to let myself be taken, so I can get information for you._

_No!_ she shouts in her mind. _No, Taliesin, my child of the Hunt. You must fight it. You’re not experienced enough. Fight it. I won’t lose you!_ She feels her despair rising with the last thoughts. In her heart, she knows that he won’t obey her—the fierce protectiveness; the seriousness that he takes the idea of what a padawan’s duty is.

“No,” she says aloud. As she focuses on the bond again, her shoulder lights up with pain as Lorhena slips past her parry. Lorhena and whatever is with her. Ti manages to avoid a more serious blow, her parry now clumsy with the fire moving up and down her saber arm.

Her mind freezes, or rather time seems to stand in a frozen tableau. She feels the temperature around her drop as a burst of light flashes in her mind’s eye.

* * *

The stars calm as Meglann brings the A-wing trainer into normal space. Felucia and its moons fill the cockpit canopy. Her eyes scan the instruments as her hands grasp the control yoke. She breathes out, hoping that her passenger doesn’t hear the nervous release. She glances at one corner of a screen on the console. She curses to herself as she sees the smirk on her passenger’s darker, sculpted face.

“I see that you managed not to bring us into a star or a singularity, cuz,” Yelena Dao says. Her multicolored eyes—at times dark blue, brown, and green, all in the space of ten seconds, belie the snarky tone and expression. The Yardmaster—a hereditary title on Meglann’s father’s world, nods, the silver tuft of hair gathered up from her otherwise bald head, bouncing with the movement. “Not bad, sweetie,” she says, her voice a slight Core accent, rather than the recorded thicker voice of Therion Dao, the human scion of the ancient Fondorian Yard-family. Meglann’s father. “I guess I’ll get to help you celebrate your first hyperspace jump, with only one passenger, right?”

“Yeah,” Meglann says, thinking of the journey to the _Opportunity_. “First one with with a witness to how scared shitless I was,” she finishes. She feels Yelena’s hand on her shoulder.

“Not bad, cuz. Not bad at all,” Yelena repeats. Meglann senses her smile fade. “So what’s my part in all of this?”

“Help me cover someone. There may be a lot of angry Imperial troopers involved.”

She hears Yelena laugh and sees her heft the Imperial long-rifle. “Best kind. So what’s my reward for all this chaos that you might need?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it,” Meglann replies. “How about several hours of my company, cooped up in a fighter with our bladders bursting?”

“Yeah, that isn’t going to be enough. You _are_ charming and beautiful and a distant enough cousin, but I’m going to need more than that. A ‘fresher would be a nice first step.”

Meglann falls silent as they enter the atmosphere on the course transmitted to her by Phygus. Her eyes narrow as she sees a small red blip on her scope, near her objective. “Hang on, cuz. Gotta take care of something.” She grins. “I guess I could get you dinner with Covenant or Fulcrum.”

“It’s a start, though Dani would be my first choice.”

Meglann rolls her eyes as she puts the A-wing into a steep atmospheric dive. “Sounds like I’m chopped liver or something,” she says. She grins as she sees Yelena’s hand tighten on her rifle and on the launch grip on the console.

A beeping in her earpiece tells her of a targeting sensor locking onto her. She sights the Imperial shuttle rising, its side mounted weapons swiveling up. Without thinking, Meglann triggers her own cannon.

She sees her bolts arcing down, almost lazily, intersecting with the shuttle’s shields, then overpowering them. The shuttle explodes in a burst of light and superheated metal.

“Good shot,” Yelena says. Meglann remains silent as a gnawing sensation grows in her stomach. One that had never been there before. “I ambushed them,” she whispers, half to herself. She closes her eyes for an instant.

“Uh, I could be mistaken, Meglann, but that nice little music in our earpieces indicated they were going to shoot us first.” Meglann feels her hands on her shoulders; this time both hands squeeze. “I know, love. It never gets easier. If you weren’t thinking about it, you wouldn’t be any different than the Imps.” Oddly, Meglann wonders how a young woman maybe a few months younger than she can tell her about having to kill someone, other than her own uncle—a shot Meglann had witnessed. One that had helped save her and her loves’ lives.

“Maybe I should stay up here,” Meglann says half-heartedly.

Yelena’s right hand moves to touch her cheek from behind. “No, I’m going to need you down there. I might be able to take out any of those troops that Lambda left, but I’ll need you to watch my back.”

The gnawing sensation is still there as Meglann identifies a clearing for landing.

* * *

Bryne stares at the beloved face of Shaak Ti. He raises his gloved hands, knuckling his eyes, unable to believe what his senses tell him.

Ti closes the distance between them. Bryne tenses, wondering what this weirdness—the mix of dark and light pressing on his brain, will bring. His eyes move over the version of Hunt-clothing that his master wears. He takes a deep breath as she moves in front of him. She closes his eyes, then shifts his helmet to his belt. Ti opens her arms, then pulls him in close.

He surrenders to the sensation, a sensation that was rare as he grew, but probably still more prevalent than other masters and padawans might enjoy. He closes his eyes, feeling the coolness of her skin against his face. He feels her lips against his cheek. His Force sense vibrates with her closeness, with the comforting familiar buzz through the remnants of the training bond.

“I don’t know how to feel, my master. What’s going on? Why are you here, now?”

Ti gives her warm smile, an expression that had always calmed him and reassured him, no matter what the trial or mistake that he had endured. “You have to do what you told my fierce little huntress, Taliesin,” she says. “You have to search your feelings.”

Bryne rolls his eyes. Instead of taking him to task, she laughs and releases him. He immediately misses the familiar contact. He looks down. “I can’t focus, Master. It’s just like when we were here last time. My feelings are clouded. For the longest time, I couldn’t remember what happened here. Now things are starting to come back, in bits and pieces.” He touches her shoulder, looking up at her. “I’ve missed you so much—so terribly, Master Ti. I’ve needed your guidance in this new world, like I’ve never needed it before.”

His eyes widen as he sees her violet eyes roll, then focus on him with a hint of the old sparkle. A sparkle that had lifted him, no matter what his doubts and fears. “As you would say, my child, I call bullshit on that. You and Ahsoka—that collection of warriors that you’ve gathered around you—you might help to bring salvation to this galaxy. You and your Links, as you call them are providing a tiny glimmer of light, even those who aren’t Force users.”

“How, my master? We’re just ordinary people. Ahsoka is the most powerful of us. We all doubt in our hearts that we can make a difference.”

“As your Meglann has told you, it will take those ordinary people. But again, I would doubt that any of you are ordinary. You’re bound by limitless love. Ahsoka is so touched with the light, even though she isn’t a Jedi. There is a new hope in the galaxy coming, but you and your loves will set the stage for it. As Jana Sloane always said to you, you have to keep the faith.

“Two of my loves are a part of this. You and Dani. Love will fight the darkness. There may be dark times. Ahsoka may have to truly be in the shadows, even from you and the others. But there is hope.”

“How?” Bryne cries. “There’s nothing but darkness. He slumps to his knees. “How?” he whispers again.

Ti lowers herself to him, taking him in her arms. “I don’t understand fully,” she says. “I know that I left this existence on Kamino. I don’t understand how I’m able to be here. I’m part of the Cosmic Force.” She looks down. “I’ve seen myself die in multiple ways—just as different rumors of my death have been swirling. I’ve seen myself being stabbed by a dark figure on Coruscant. Grievous killed me on his ship as Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi watched.”

She brings her hand to his cheek. “I’ve seen something new as well. I see myself falling into a pit near where you fell the last time, battling an all-powerful light and darkness.”

He feels himself stiffen. “I won’t let that happen, Master,” he says fiercely.

She doesn’t reply, merely holds him tighter. “I’ve felt a part of you here, as well,” he hears in his ear, “a part that you may have left.”

* * *

The Novice feels his eyelids lifting, then slamming down again. He screws his eyes closed, not wanting to open them. As he does, a memory flits through this head; a memory of a presence patiently standing over him as he struggled to remain asleep. His memory-self feels his body being lifted from the bed. He feels nothing of the warm energy that he has associated with this familiar signature. He only feels massive furry arms lifting him from the bed and unceremoniously depositing him on the floor.

He pulls his eyes open finally. The warm grass rustles against his cheek. He no longer feels the rising heat from the volcano. He shakes his head as he lifts up. An older human male stares at him, dressed in the field uniform of an ISB agent. He searches for a name from very near memories. He stops short at the figure that stands next to Mallie. A woman’s figure, indistinct. He reaches out to the Force; the signature rising in its slight familiarity.

A signature that he associates with that abrupt awakening. He looks around, searching for Nulla. “Your companion isn’t with us, son,” Mallie says. “Apparently this world has another need for her.”

“What do you mean when you say ‘son’?” Thirteen asks, his hand moves to the remnants of his lightsaber.

He hears a voice from the figure next to Kento Mallie. His heart twists at the sound of the voice. He can’t tell if he hears the voice or if the voice is only speaking in his mind. As he stares at her, her figure becomes even more indistinct.

“What do you think it means, my little Starkiller?” she says. He feels his eyes widen at the words—words that tweak even more memories.

“Mother?” he manages to vocalize. His hand moves slightly away from his weapon. As it does, he feels another presence next to him. He whirls, seeing nothing, but falls to his knees with tendrils of the Force stabbing into his brain, the pain squeezing. He feels the shattered lightsaber slipping from his fingers.

He closes his eyes, fighting the burning pain in his head, his hands now squeezing his skull. His eyes snap open as the pain leaves his head. The figures of Mallie and the woman are now gone. So is the area that he had been in when he had seen them.

He can only see grayness—gray in his vision, as well as his Force sense. He feels a scream being yanked from his mouth. It cuts off suddenly.

There is silence in his ears and his brain. Sensations cascade over his entire being. Sensations that include a very distinct woman holding him as a child. He feels the wool against his cheek, as well as a warm hand moving over and through his hair. His eyes fall on the sight of two Wookiees lying on the ground, their bodies torn. A dark figure stands over them as he is yanked up. He hears one word in his mind.

A word forgotten as he sees two different figures staring at him. One, a tall, stately Togruta, of about the woman’s age in his mind. She stares at him serenely, her violet eyes sad. His eyes move to the figure next to her. A human male in Mando armor, his helmet off, but his features indistinct—just as the woman’s next to Mallie. He feels the lightsaber fly into his hand, the snap-hiss of its activation cutting into his hearing.

He hears the voice of the woman of his memory speaking to him, saying one word as the red consumes the gray in his mind.

_Galen._


	21. The life, the consummation that had been denied you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He moves closer to her back, letting the affection wash over him for a half-minute. He pushes off, continuing to block blaster bolts as he runs towards the wall of trees and its white stone, his sprint, for the first time in a year or so, powered by the Force. He turns around, glancing at Ti’s figure. His eyes widen as he sees the Inquisitor pushing Ti back. Lightning arcs from the hand not swinging the remnants of a lightsaber—lightning that Ti easily blocks, but gives ground to the bursts. He starts to scream as he sees the pit behind her; one adjacent to the gray ruins. He stops as he remembers what Ti had said of her visions of her many deaths._ Her words cut through him again, just as similar words had nearly a half-decade ago on a watery world, when his world had fallen with the darkness. 
> 
>   _I love you, my child of the Hunt._
> 
>  
> 
> _He turns away, managing to shake his tears away._

Ahsoka stares at the white-tinted stone of the high totem, an object abutted by some of the densest vegetation she had seen on this world. She realizes that the vegetation had flanked—at a distance—the trail that they had taken from the area she had finished her Force jump from the ship. She has a vague sense that it seems to go on and on for kilometers, rising to its zenith here from the north. She turns to Dilanni and Geordai. “I think I have to go it alone, boys,” she says. “I don’t think this is a place for you, past that wall.”

Dilanni shakes his head. “We’re here with you, Half. You were willing to risk everything to make sure my boy was restored to me, when you could’ve ignored him.”

Ahsoka smiles, then looks at Geordai. “Seems like he kinda rescued himself, bud,” she says. She reaches over and kisses Geordai on the head. As she pulls back, she sees him giving the Felucian equivalent of a blush, sending his eyes downward. “There’s stuff beyond that wall that I’m not sure that I understand. I’ll need someone on this side to watch my back.” She sighs. “Or guide those idiots that I know that are coming to watch my back.”

“How are you going to get over that? It’s way up there,” Geordai says. “You won’t be able to climb the plants. They’re sticky.”

Ahsoka starts to reply but sees Dilanni’s smile. “I don’t think you have to worry about that, little one,” he replies. His expression grows serious, or what Ahsoka can tell is serious. “What do you need us to do, Ahsoka?” he asks. 

“Conceal yourself and the rides. I’m pretty sure somebody might be along. You might recognize them.” She closes her eyes. “I think we’re about to have unwelcome company.”

Dilanni nods. “You think that pirate or her little apprentice will join us?” he asks. 

“Don’t know. Maybe. Neither of them listen worth a damn,” she says. She touches them both on their shoulders, then Geordai on his cheek. “Don’t be like them. There’s no need to be heroes. Guide them here and get back to the village. I don’t know what the Imperials have in store for the village.” 

“Ahsoka,” Geordai says, “may the Force be with you.” She smiles as she sees his father’s look of pride, mixed with amazement.

She leaps high into the air, not even bothering to gather her Force sense. As she does, she feels a surge of power around her. She feels an intense presence; she smiles as she recognizes it. At the apex of her arc upwards, she senses one she hasn’t felt in years, since the fall of the Jedi.

A softly accented laughter plays in her montrals. Laughter heard usually accompanying a lesson on their shared world. She pauses in the air, turning towards the east. She grits her teeth as she hears the telltale sounds of the new troop transports. Her eyes lock on a crimson armored figure on a speeder bike in front, with one in the rear.

Ahsoka allows herself to fall on the other side of the wall. She prepares to stick her landing in bushes at the base. As she does, something darker, but more distant starts to press on her mind. She hears Anakin’s dry voice. She braces for the impact; she begins to slow. 

She plummets through bushes to darkness below, cursing as she tries to grab something to slow her descent. All thoughts of sticking a Force jump disappear from her mind as she feels sharp thorns tear at the bare skin of her arms.

Ahsoka opens her mouth.

* * *

The Inquisitor— _his son_ , thinks Kento Mallie, disappears from view. He turns to Lorhena, the woman that he had spent a desperate, passioned-filled night with on Corellia. A night that had produced the angry young man with a darker version of Lorhena’s eyes—the one that had faded from view. He stares at her, his eyes widening at her expression. She stares back at him— _no, through him_ —as if she had never known him. 

His stomach falls, then flips with his heart as he sees her begin to glow red, the outline of her body dark against even more darkness. The light of the glow starts in the center of her body, then moves outward towards the darkness, which fades into grayness as the light approaches. Her outline disappears into a burst of bright light. 

Mallie closes his eyes, then brings his fists to them, as if scrubbing them of the scene. When he opens them again, her form is one without a clear outline any longer, just an amorphous blob of light. Light that transitions between red, dimming to gray, then brightening to white. He hears her voice, fading with each color-shift. He starts towards her, screaming her name.

His mind hears her voice before his ears do. “No, my love! Stay away!” He feels her despair, just as it sounds in his senses. “I’m not what you think I am, Kento,” she manages to say.

“I can feel you, Lorhena. I love you! Focus on me. I’ll bring you back,” he manages against a growing pressure in his head, as well as in her presence in his mind.

“No!” she screams. “You don’t understand. I was never here!”

His mind reels from this, from the thought that he had allowed himself to be deceived. Deceived by the memory of one night’s love. Of something more than there had ever been.

Kento makes up his mind. _Maybe this is where we’ll be together. How we’ll be together_. He wills his left foot to move forward, something his mind is telling him not to. His heart wills the movement, then another, then a third. 

He doesn’t run. He walks purposefully towards the light. As he comes closer, he sees Lorhena in the depths of the transitioning burst of colors. He yanks his gloves off, then his chestplate. He reaches out to her dimming figure. As he touches her, she starts to fade from his senses. 

Kento closes his eyes, then pushes forward. He grasps something solid. Behind his eyelids, he sees the intense light fade. He feels the same sensation that he had felt when he had first seen her, all of those years ago on Corellia, when her dark blue eyes had locked on his. As his hand closes on what feels like her shoulder, his stomach lurches again.

He feels as if he is falling. He opens his eyes and sees only darkness, except when he looks up and sees the shrinking light. He sees Lorhena’s face in his mind, until it is replaced with what seems to be a white, stone altar. 

Kento Mallie screams as he strikes an unyielding stone floor. He feels nothing, but he hears Lorhena’s warm voice—a version that he had only heard on the night that they had made love. Her voice sings a warm lullaby.

* * *

Dani Faygan looks out at the landscape of lush greens and other bright colors as their freighter arcs in. Jaten Gorlute looks at her curiously, but doesn’t ask what is all over his face. He turns back to the Zeltron and human combination at the controls. “Set us down in that clearing, Ash. Looks like some of the stormies have started to move in. We might be engaged as soon as we land.”

Ash, a tall human with very dark skin, narrows her eyes at him. “Do I tell you how do whatever the hell it is that you do, Iron?” she asks dryly. The Zeltron woman, who Dani could swear bears a strong resemblance to Kanylynaan na’ Torstan’ii, the heart bond of the elected leader, laughs at Jaten’s expression. 

“What are you laughing at, Silver?” he asks darkly.

“You, Iron. What else?” she replies. 

Ash looks over at Silver and nods. “Am I correct that this boat is sacrificial? That we might have to find another way off of this rock?” she asks, directing the question behind her. “I mean, it looks like there might be a couple of squads down there. There’s only seven of us, plus that Naboo and those two Alderaani oafs that we had to fight to get to pilot this thing.”

Jaten looks at Dani. “Yeah. I think so. I might be doing something else,” she says. “We might have to split our force to cover the other two places, since Lassa might be busy with any Imperial ships that might get in.”

A very large human walks into the cockpit. He shoots a thunderous expression at the pair of pilots, then looks at Dani. “Nola’s found a speederbike on this thing. She’s chomping at the bit to show off her racing skills, Dani,” Boge M’Faru says, not bothering with Dani’s codename. 

She nods and replies, “That’ll be good. At least she’s not asking to fly the ship. She’s pretty good with anything that can’t go over a thousand meters or so.”

Ash stands up. It’s at that moment that Dani realizes that she and Nola may be of a height. “I better go and make sure that everybody’s got everything they need.” She looks at Boge. “I guess you can take over now,” she says. “Seeing how you and the hairy one lost the throw of the dice.”

He grins at her. “Spare me from adopted Corellians. Nope, the hairy one’s the pilot. I’m just the brains of the operation.”

“Then we’re fucked,” she says. She gives him a soft look, then looks him up and down. “Not a bad situation to be in, bud.”

Dani is only half aware of their byplay. Her body is struck by a familiar feeling—one that she hasn’t felt in a half-decade. One that the loss of had nearly killed her. She reaches into the pocket of her jacket, feeling the sharp edges of the teeth of the item in there. She closes her eyes, reveling in the warmth and love. She sighs. She is not a Force-user, but something is amplifying that particular emotional signature. She pulls out the headdress. Ti’s headdress that Bryne Covenant had taken from her body and had given to her.

She sees Jaten Gorlute’s eyes fall on the adornment. She is startled to see a look of recognition on his handsome, even features. “We’ll get you there, Daaineran,” he says quietly. He grins, an expression that lights up his face. “I think we might need to find you something less fashionable to wear, though.”

Later, as she stares down at the stormtrooper’s body lying on the lush ground, where Ash and Boge had deposited it, she curses as she realizes what Jaten had meant. She sees that the armor is undamaged. Dani sighs and starts to pull her charcoal and blue waves up into a tight binding.

**The Past**

Shaak hears a tumult of voices sounding in her montrals and lekku. She moves her hands to the ground below her cheek, then manages to raise up. She stares across at Lorhena Marek, who is staring back at her. Shaak looks down at the still-ignited saber in her hand, then looks purposefully at Marek. They nod at each other and sheathe their blades. They both look around at where they have fallen. They see the smooth gray walls of what looks like a spent lava tube. Her eyes track upwards, spotting the tiny light-colored disk that is the daylight sky. Her sharp vision can just make out wisps of smoke. She no longer feels any tremors under her body; the temperature of the air is cool. She hears a slight groan behind her. 

Both she and Marek turn as one. Taliesin Croft lies on his back on the stone floor. She sees his hands on his forehead. She manages to rise and runs over to him. Marek is close on his heels.

“Taliesin!” Shaak exclaims, her fear raising the pitch and volume of her voice. She reaches down and touches his shoulder. He pulls his hands from his face and opens his eyes. Her heart twists as his face remains blank for a moment. Her body loses its tension as that lazy grin slowly spreads over his features.

“What kept you, Master?” he asks, a hint of snark in his drawling inflection. “I hope that if you stopped for supper, it was worth it.”

She laughs, then pulls him tightly into her. She feels his grin fade against her shoulder, mixed with just a bit of dampness. “Smartass,” she whispers. “You owe me dinner, for that crack, my child.” Over his shoulder, Shaak sees Marek’s eyes widen at her turn of words. 

Shaak finds that she doesn’t care. Her eyes fall on what Croft lies in front of. A flat disk of of a beige, glass-like stone, mixed with dots of black. She senses a great cold emanating from the structure. She gives it a quick scan with the Force. She feels nothing. As her Force sense retreats, she sees a pulse of red light, quickly shifting to white, with a blue-gray in between.

“I tried scanning, it, Master, as well,” Taliesin says. “I got nothing. It seems to be almost a null when it comes to the Force signature. Compared to what we felt up there.”

She hears a noise from Marek. She stares at the altar, as if it is a long-lost answer to a question. “I think it’s showing all aspects of the Force. It represents those in the dark, the light, as well as those in between.”

Shaak can feel the eyeroll against her shoulder. Croft lifts his head, not even trying to show respect for his elders. Shaak beats him to it.

“That’s bullshit, Lorhena and you know it.” She sees Croft’s eyes widen; he is probably taking the blame for teaching her that word. _Not quite, my lad_ , flashes through the bond. “If you’re trying to bring the Gray Jedi into it, just remember that there’s no such thing. You’re either a Sith, with darkness and anger in your makeup, or you’re a light-sider. There’s no in between. You can’t live in both worlds. Only Force gods or beings have that luxury.”

“You’re wrong Ti,” Marek starts. “Qui-Gon Jinn, may he rest in the Force—”

Shaak cuts her off. “Qui-Gon Jinn may have defied the Council at every turn, he may have been, as my padawan would call him, an asshole, but he was firmly in the light. Don’t even bring him up as an example.” She feels the anger rise from every fiber of Marek’s being. 

“You’re wrong, Ti,” she says, biting off every word. “I’m a gray Jedi. I’ve always been in the middle.”

“Being in the middle doesn’t mean that you can pick and choose what belief you’re going to have from moment to moment,” Croft says quietly. Shaak has to strain to hear his words. “It means that you’re able to find balance in yourself.”

Shaak Ti feels the tears sting her eyes at the maturity in his voice.

Lorhena Marek apparently doesn’t feel the same pride. Shaak watches as her eyes begin to flash red, belying her statements about being a gray Jedi.

Shaak swings at Lorhena, an instant before she swings at Croft.

* * *

Meglann Florlin forces her way through the jungle. She had landed on the west side of the large wall, barely concealed in the vegetation; finding a clearing that the A-wing trainer could just barely fit. The clearing had been several kilometers away. As she and Yelena run towards the wall and the wreckage of the tank that she knows is on the other side and a kilometer or two to the south, she does something she had never thought she would do. 

She silently thanks Drop for the intense workout regimen he had prescribed for her in the months that she had worn the rank plaque. A rank plaque now attached to brief armor covering the front and back of her torso. Something Drop and Dani had insisted on.

She feels Yelena slow behind her. She turns, just in time to see Yelena sling her rifle and start climbing a large tree. “Going high, cuz,” she says to Meglann. Meglann only has time to nod before she hears a loud crashing, accompanied by a loud exclamation. She smirks a bit at the familiarity of the voice screaming imprecations. 

“Shiiiiiittt!” Ahsoka screams, the volume fading as if at an increasing distance. Meglann slides to a stop, her feet scrabbling at the age of a deep pit, concealed by even more vegetation, except for an Ahsoka-sized hole in the middle. She slumps to her knees as she realizes that this is where Ahsoka’s voice had come from. Meglann takes a deep breath, her hands resting on her thighs. 

She looks down into the pit, a pit that is not as dark as she would think. A dim glow of white light breaks through the darkness. Her eyes widen as she sees Ahsoka crouching on the ground. She can just tell that Ahsoka’s eyes are closed. Her eyes widen as a small green and yellow bird narrowly misses Meglann’s head and flies down to Ahsoka, settling on her right shoulder. Ahsoka takes no notice.

Meglann had seen her at meditation, had been awed at the calmness on her face and the relaxation of her body. It had looked just like this. Except for the pain, evident even at the distance and in the dim light. 

“Ahsoka,” she calls out, careful not to yell too loudly. As she does, she hears a crashing noise just behind her. She manages to turn and rise, drawing her blaster as she does. She fires several double bursts without thinking, causing the several fleet troopers to dive for cover at the powerful blasts. She realizes, at a quick count as she squeezes off the energy bursts that there are at least a couple of dozen moving towards her position. Laser bursts begin to smack at the vegetation around her. She manages to find cover behind a large rock. As she does, she sees two scarlet-armored figures moving on her position. One breaks off from the other and heads to the side of the wall. She turns her fire on that one, as the other jumps down to the level of the lip of the pit right next to her. An electrostaff swings towards her head, she manages to jerk it out of the path of the weapon. She loses her balance, dropping her blaster. She springs up bringing her fists up in what she knows is a futile blocking gesture. 

The figure swings the staff. Meglann shoves forward, causing her faceless opponent to overbalance. She screams with pain as the electrostaff intersects with her left side. She can feel her ribs give against the blunt force of the weapon. She slumps down, looking up at the Imperial. She can’t see the face, but knows that if she could, she would see her death in the eyes. She braces herself as the Guard—the Royal Guard—as her mind catalogues the uniform—raises the staff. 

She feels her heart sink, not at her death, but at her failure to protect Ahsoka.

* * *

Bryne feels Ti stiffen, just as a powerful darkness compresses his Force sense. He sees confusion, then understanding in Ti’s violet eyes. They spring apart, their lightsabers unsheathing. He drops the old commando helmet over his head. Bryne notes that Ti’s lightsaber is a duplicate of the one that he had last seen in the double pouch on the back of his belt. He manages to see that the one he holds in his hand is the one that Gungi had constructed, so many years ago on an adventure with Ahsoka and other younglings. 

He has no chance to check the other lightsaber as the green blade intersects with a crimson version. He stares at the human wearing the Imperial cog just above each bicep on his bare arms. Dark, burning eyes stare at them both over a metal and cloth mask combination over the lower part of his face. Cropped dark hair with gold highlights in a distinctive pattern completes his quick appraisal. The patterns stir a memory.

He glances up, seeing a crimson figure on a speederbike manage to clear the top of the high wall. He hears a pounding noise on the wall, coupled with the sound of blaster cannon. Several energy bolts float towards the trio dancing and striking at each other. He feels Ti’s back move against his, her raw strength reassuring, as it had always been in his memory. Bryne automatically begins to parry the energy bolts as Ti handles the dueling. He feels the tears spill down his cheeks under his helmet at the memory of facing threats like this in his youth; the comforting presence of his master back-to-back with him. 

Bryne feels the light swell around him as his Force sense grows. He senses that he is suddenly whole, as if something that had been missing is suddenly restored to him. He feels Ti’s joy mixing with the light surrounding them. From the Inquisitor, he senses confusion—confusion at the fight that he continues. 

He hears a cry from his front, a cry of pain, in a voice familiar to him after a year of hearing that voice’s dreams, hopes, and fears, expressed to him, as well as to Ahsoka and Dani. The cry takes on an otherworldly quality, as his Force sense shifts in and out of his mind. He hears Ti’s voice in his mind, the frayed training bond suddenly restored. 

_Go to her, my son_ , Ti’s voice says. _She is strong, but we all can always use some help._

He grins at the next words. _Even though your Meglann won’t admit it. Just like others that I know, either directly or through you._

Bryne grows serious. _I don’t want to leave you master. I just found you._

The reply warms him, but cuts him as well. _Taliesin. It’s my time. Go. You and those you love are the light, right now._

He moves closer to her back, letting the affection wash over him for a half-minute. He pushes off, continuing to block blaster bolts as he runs towards the wall of trees and its white stone, his sprint, for the first time in a year or so, powered by the Force. He turns around, glancing at Ti’s figure. His eyes widen as he sees the Inquisitor pushing Ti back. Lightning arcs from the hand not swinging the remnants of a lightsaber—lightning that Ti easily blocks, but gives ground to the bursts. He starts to scream as he sees the pit behind her; one adjacent to the gray ruins. He stops as he remembers what Ti had said of her visions of her many deaths. 

Her words cut through him again, just as similar words had nearly a half-decade ago on a watery world, when his world had fallen with the darkness. 

_I love you, my child of the Hunt._

He turns away, managing to shake his tears away.


	22. I too have longed for children. Ah, but you must not weep.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Snips!”_
> 
> _The one word cuts through Ahsoka’s mind. Her heart twists with pain as her mind focuses on Anakin’s face. She shakes her head, but the vision doesn’t move from her mind. She can smell the ozone from blasterfire as her surroundings come sharply into focus. She feels the comforting presence of Rex against her left shoulder. She looks down at herself, seeing the thin, immature body and the skimpy top of her early hunt-clothing. Her right hand holds her single lightsaber, its green blade shining in the dim light of the dying day. She looks to their front, sees the thousands of B1s, B2s, and droidekas advancing on them. Her eyes move to her right and then her left. Her gut twists as she realizes that only a couple of platoons of Torrent Company stand with her. She feels Anakin’s unyielding right hand on her skinny shoulder._
> 
> _She looks up at him, fighting the fear that pervades her body. He grins at her, his blue eyes twinkling, the right one marked by the scar of her memory. “Looks like we’ll have plenty of lightsaber practice,” he says, his grin growing bright._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, wonderful art by @rebekahs-art. Her site on tumblr: https://rebekahs-art.tumblr.com/. Go there, commission her! She’s wonderful to work with!

Meglann braces herself for the blow; the Guard brings the electrostaff up, pointing the sharp end at her face. Her eyes concentrate on the sparking. She shakes her head, willing herself to rise. The pain of her ribs—she’s not sure if they’re broken or not, having never had the opportunity to experience the joy of energy-blows to her side before—stops her movement. She can sense the faceless Guard’s triumph as he takes advantage. The point of the staff moves downward.

Then falls to the ground from nerveless fingers. Meglann stares at the Guard, at the hole that has suddenly grown in his—she idly confirms the apparent gender as she stares at the burned hole where a human’s right eye should be. She takes a deep breath, then pushes the pain of injury to the back of her mind. She rises, looking around her. She spots her blaster; the heavy weapon given to her by the grandmother of her savior. She can hear blasterfire to her north. 

As Meglann reaches the weapon, a very large and dark shape tackles her. She screams as her tortured ribs impact the ground. She strikes the blaster with the palm of one hand, concentrating on the fingers holding it, sending it flying. The fleet trooper grunts, then whimpers slightly as her right knee connects with his balls. She sees his dark eyes lock on the hand guarding her side. He lifts a large fist and punches her in that side. She tries to bite back the scream that erupts again, but fails. Meglann feels herself being pressed into the soft ground, neck muscles straining as he pushes her face to the left, forcing her nose and mouth into the ground. As he concentrates on trying to suffocate her and punching her, he ignores her right arm. _Probably thinks it’s too skinny to worry about_ , she thinks. She forms it into a fist, then relaxes it. 

The trooper reels backward from the dirt that she hurls into his eyes. Meglann manages to wriggle free and rolls towards her blaster. He manages to jump for his, just as she reaches hers. His hand closes on the weapon.

There is loud burst of light and noise as she sends a double blast into his face. Her eyes widen at the mess that the RSKF-44 causes to what had been an ordinary human visage. She drops the blaster, then slumps back down to her knees. She feels the bile rising in her throat, along with the remnants of her last meal. 

Meglann fights the bile. She hears a soft, accented voice in her earpiece. “Let it out, sweetie. It’s okay,” Yelena says. Meglann can hear the sounds of her blaster rifle as she picks off the Imperials. “I think we’ve got them on the run, between us and our apparent backup.”

“What backup?” she manages, an instant before the deluge erupts from her mouth. She tries not to laugh as she is expelling the contents of her stomach at the next words. 

“I don’t know, but I’m suddenly very horny as they get closer,” Yelena says. 

As she wipes her mouth, Meglann looks down into the pit. Neither Ahsoka nor the bird are in view.

* * *

Bryne Covenant runs towards the sound of blaster fire from the clearing where he had left Ti and her opponent. He ignites both sabers as he runs towards the wall of vegetation. He hears the sound of concentrated blaster fire to the west and to the north, where the wall of vegetation divides him from Meglann. As he begins to increase his speed, to power through, he wonders if the whole differentiation of colors means a lot less than he and Lorhena Marek had thought it did. He feels the signature of the alternating dark, light, and something in the middle continue as he manages to make to where he had heard the scream, from his last position at the lava tube/pit. He leaps up, clearing the wall in an instant. He stops.

He stands still, suddenly breathing in calmness, a bubble of quiet, both in the air, as well as the Force. The calm only lasts a minute as he sees four stormtroopers moving towards a familiar figure, just finishing puking her guts up from some region, it appears, located around her painted toenails. Bryne grins softly at Meglann’s predicament for a second, then moves purposefully towards her. 

He sheathes Gungi’s saber, concentrating on Ti’s solely as he moves to the guard. The saber instinctively moves to the reverse as he switches to defense against energy weapons rather than a duelist’s protection.

“Hey, assholes,” he yells, unable to think of anything profound and Jedi-like to say. The four turn away from Meglann, as she manages to jump to her feet. He sees her excited grin as she spots him; another second and he is too busy to acknowledge her smile. Three of the four stormtroopers fall to their own bolts as his rusty Force sense gives him the double-vision predictor of where they will fire. Something he hasn’t been able to do for over a year, even when other aspects of the energy field seem to work.

The Force apparently remembers that it’s not supposed to work for him; the fourth buckethead is able to slip past the clean miss of his own deflected bolt. Covenant sends his saber back to the pouch— _that part still works_ , he thinks idly. He seizes his old and trusted DC-15S, a clone’s weapon that he had seized on Kamino just after Ti’s death; a weapon that had saved his life many times.

His eyes widen as he realizes that the firing mechanism had been smashed as it hung from his side on its assault harness. Apparently the trooper had managed to get a bolt off after the faulty deflection. Bryne instantly switches to a weapon from yet another of his heritages, the trusty Corellian blaster that he had liberated from a Hutt’s minion over a decade ago, when he thought that he was rescuing his master with Aayla Secura. 

He smiles as the bolt splits the trooper’s helmet in two, not at the violence, but at the past realization that Ti had never been in danger. He remembers her laughter at his and Aayla’s expressions of chagrin.

Bryne feels a pair of arms encircle his middle, right above the purple sash tied on his armor. He lifts his hands to his helmet bottom, pulling it off. Meglann looks at him, her eyes tearing slightly. She lifts her hands to his cheeks.

“Glad to see that you’re in the land of the living, Bryne,” she says. She touches his lips with hers.

“Wish the two of you had time to strip down and do whatever,” comes a Core-accented voice behind them. “But I think we might have an unwanted audience, soon.”

Bryne turns and looks at the young woman holding an old Republic long rifle between her knee, calmly locking a new tibanna-gas cylinder into place. He returns her appraising look, then closes his eyes. 

When he opens them, Meglann looks at him with worry. She shifts slightly in his arms, gives a gasp as her side comes into contact with his arm. He moves it up under her arm, holding her up. “Ahsoka was down in that pit,” she says. “I don’t see her now.”

He nods. “I think I have to get back to another pit, now that I’m sure you’re okay. I think that they’re connected somehow. Someone else might be in trouble.”

“I think that someone else might be drawing Dani there, as well,” she says. “To the gray place.”

He nods. “You and the Yardmaster get to your ship. Make sure that anyone you might have come with gets to an LZ. Deuce will pick them up, if they don’t have a way off.”

She nods, then looks at Yelena. “Yeah, I think our ‘backup’ is making the Yardmaster kinda horny. They have that affect on people.” She narrows her eyes at him. “I think Nola found a burner ship for them. We’ll have to make sure it goes ‘boom’.”

Bryne grins, then gives her a final kiss. “Be careful. Get out of here if you have to. I think Phygus might be here with the _Beskad_ , as well.”

A touch of Yelena’s cheek as he passes her and then he is jumping into the pit.

As he passes the camouflage layer, his world twists. He finds himself lying on the bare, carpeted deck of the _Draq’stone._

He looks up; he hears a querulous beep and grunt, mixed with the basic word ‘hell’. Deuce stares down at him. 

He pulls himself up; then heads to the cockpit. _No time to wonder how I got back here_ , he thinks.

Bryne reaches out to the Force, feeling a different aspect of it come online, into his senses. He feels his body shift.

* * *

“Snips!”

The one word cuts through Ahsoka’s mind. Her heart twists with pain as her mind focuses on Anakin’s face. She shakes her head, but the vision doesn’t move from her mind. She can smell the ozone from blasterfire as her surroundings come sharply into focus. She feels the comforting presence of Rex against her left shoulder. She looks down at herself, seeing the thin, immature body and the skimpy top of her early hunt-clothing. Her right hand holds her single lightsaber, its green blade shining in the dim light of the dying day. She looks to their front, sees the thousands of B1s, B2s, and droidekas advancing on them. Her eyes move to her right and then her left. Her gut twists as she realizes that only a couple of platoons of Torrent Company stand with her. She feels Anakin’s unyielding right hand on her skinny shoulder. 

She looks up at him, fighting the fear that pervades her body. He grins at her, his blue eyes twinkling, the right one marked by the scar of her memory. “Looks like we’ll have plenty of lightsaber practice,” he says, his grin growing bright. 

Ahsoka feels her resolve grow, pushing the fear away. She feels the warmth and something else flowing through the new training bond. She smiles as she realizes what that something else is. Raw confidence in her—no, not just confidence— _respect_. Something that she had felt from only one other of their age. “I’m ready, Master Anakin,” she says, hoping her voice is firm. Her eyes follow his to the approaching horde of Separatists. They both see the Separatist commander push through the hordes of droids. A hissing, sibilant cadence can be heard in her montrals and through the Force.

“Ahh, Skywalker? Where’s Obi-Wan? You going to be able to function without him?” Her silver-blue eyes, which Ahsoka had seen in the intelligence reports as she had studied known Separatists, as well as on the monastery at Teth, narrow as they fall on her. “I see you brought your Togruta brat.”

Ahsoka feels her anger rise, at least until Anakin’s left hand joins his right on her shoulders. She feels, rather than sees his smile. “Obi-Wan sends his regrets, Ventress,” he says. “He says to tell you that as soon as he finishes with your flank, he’ll be there to continue your little dance.” His voice grows hard. “That is if my new apprentice hasn’t dropped your bald head on the ground in the mud and the shit.”

A laugh comes through the Force, echoing over the advancing droids. “Really? I’m still surprised they let you teach. That’s almost as hilarious as if they’d let that hairy idiot Croft take an apprentice.”

Ahsoka starts at her clan-master’s name, starts to say something. Anakin’s hand tightens slightly. “Snips, stay focused,” he says quietly. “I’ll need you and Rex to hold this ridge. Our lines may collapse if you don’t,” he warns. 

“What are you going to do, Master?” she asks, her voice sounding fearful, even to her lekku.

“Me? Not much. I’m going to cut Ventress away from her troops with the Force. They might lose some steam.”

“What? No, Master. Don’t leave me behind!” she says, her voice increasing in volume. “I’m supposed to watch your back, Skyguy,” she adds plaintively. 

He gives her a warm smile. “Not yet, Ahsoka,” he replies. “We protect each other. It’s what we do. We’ve got the bond.” He looks over at Rex. She sees the _jaig_ eyes move up and down in a nod. “Someday, you might get to save me,” he says. A leap and he is gone. 

Ten minutes later, her right arm sore from deflecting blaster bolts, she hears the beating bass notes of larties as the rest of the 501st and Kenobi’s 212th flare in. She sees Anakin cutting his way back to them, as the droids start to turn and flee, their bleating cadences sharp in the early evening light. 

Ahsoka slumps back on the ground, her eyes opening to her surroundings in the pit. The small convor lights on her shoulder again as she hears Anakin’s voice punctuating those words in her mind. 

“Or at least you can try and save me.”

She can’t remember if he’d actually said that at the time. She hears the warm voice in her mind that she had come to associate with Morai, the bird nipping gently at her bare skin.

_That time may come. Right now, little one, you have a responsibility to another. As your Master said, you are a protector. The Living Force needs you._

Her surroundings fade once again. She hears the clash of lightsabers, feels the energy bursting around her.

* * *

Nola Vorserrie feels Dani’s armored arms tighten around her middle as the military grade speederbike strains to clear the high wall to the east. As it struggles to negotiate the extra altitude and weight, the bike vibrates with sharp intensity. She hears the scrape of metal against stone, as the bike leaps over the barrier. Nola slams on the braking vanes, then slides the bike to the left as her eyes catch something just at the edge of the vision. She laughs at the maneuver, exhilaration flowing through every part of her. 

She waits for a joke from Dani about her flying skills; she rolls her eyes. She knows that she can’t be beat by any of the others on this type of vehicle. Several years of competitive racing, ever since she had begun her sojourn on Alderaan, had honed these skills, even if they hadn’t exactly transferred to anything that could leave the atmosphere. She shakes those thoughts away at what he sees. Two armored personnel carriers pound away at the base of the wall, attempting to break through to Meglann and the others. She searches for the trigger for the small blaster cannon attached to the bike. A crimson hand points at the console, she feels a quick kiss on the back of her neck. She grins at the warmth that she feels through her heart and body. _Not exactly standard equipment on Valstar racing speeders._

Nola feels the recoil of the weapon; she sees the bolts streak to carriers; she concentrates on the weapons platform. She sees the weapons fall silent as the energy blasts shred them. She flares back to the right as bolts from hand weapons strike the bike. 

“There,” Dani says, pointing. Nola’s eyes following the finger. They widen as they fall on the flare of a different type of energy weapon. She understands immediately. Nola jams the controls downward. Her stomach lurches as the ground hurtles towards them. 

Dani releases her grip on her foster-sister as they slide to a brief stop. Dani lifts Nola’s helmet, as well as the borrowed stormtrooper helmet over her face. Nola turns and stares at her. Dani’s hand smooths the worried lines from her forehead, then fall to her cheeks. She feels Dani’s warm lips touch hers. Dani’s right leg moves over her as she dismounts. Nola fights the worry as she lowers her helmet over her face. She turns the bike back. Within a few seconds, she opens up on several troopers moving to repair the cannon. 

She feels the speederbike lurch as a weight lands on it. She turns and stares into the bright blue eyes of Ahsoka Tano. Her heart twists at the distracted look in Ahsoka’s eyes. Ahsoka’s lips move against the earholes of her helmet.

“I need you to head to the east, No-no,” she says. Nola starts to protest. “To the red ruins near the lava vent.”

“Ahsoka, I want to help you,” Nola replies, her voice sharp. “It’s what I’m supposed to do. I’ve failed you before—”

Ahsoka lifts the visor and places her fingers against Nola’s lips. Time seems to stand still as she smiles at Nola. “There’s not too many I’d trust with this, sis,” she says. “Bryne may need a ride out of there.” Her eyes grow serious. “You’ve never failed me, when it comes down to it. You did what you thought you had to. Like I’ve said before.”

Before she lowers the visor, Ahsoka kisses her and is gone. 

There is no time to digest the fact that Ahsoka had voiced the affectionate nickname that they had both used. Before a decision that she had made, to keep the fact that Ahsoka was alive from Bryne, in an attempt to follow security protocols, had divided them.

A red shape zooms up next to her. A figure in crimson armor rams the side of her bike with its own. She has a sensation of a vibro axe swinging towards her head. She shifts the bike to the right causing the axe to miss. She screams at the glancing blow to her left arm from the blade, she feels the warm blood flowing from just above her elbow. She shifts back to the left, her mind focusing on the memories of her racing career. Memories of jockeying for position, taking any opening to surreptitiously knock an opponent to the back of the pack, without getting a penalty.

Her use of skills taught to her as a Handmaiden of Naboo had served her well. Probably too well, as she had been somewhat more aggressive than she needed to be. This aggressiveness might have been a factor in her several dozen participation trophies before finally placing in her last race. 

She sees her opening as her opponent starts to swing. Nola feints to ram, then swings away at the last microsecond. The Imperial overbalances, then loses control of the bike. 

Nola feels the bike locking up with the front of hers. Both bikes start to roll. Nola jumps clear. As she hurtles towards the ground, she feels a warmth of energy surround her, slowing her descent—almost as an afterthought. 

She still strikes the ground hard. She feels her consciousness fade as the two speederbikes strike the ground and explode.

Her last conscious thought is a a question. _Can I forgive myself?_

* * *

Croft struggles against Marek’s blade as he feels the darkness press on his mind. _No, not just his mind, but his body and heart, as well_. He focuses on Ti’s face as he feels his fear rise. Resolve begins to replace the fear as he sees her calm face. His eyes widen as catches a glimpse of something else in her violet eyes. A flash of light from behind him catches his eye before he can reflect on the look further. He shifts his eyes to Ti, then to the altar. 

The altar seems to be building energy, energy that still gives no sensation in the Force, but with no doubt of its power. Raw power and energy that still cuts through all of his senses, rather than just the arcane one. 

Only the color seems to indicate the power’s affiliation. A bright red, with tendrils starting to reach out from the stone of the altar. 

Marek continues to strike at both of them. As she does, and as he and Ti parry and strike, the scarlet tendrils grow longer. 

Lorhena Marek notices as well. He sees her lightsaber waver; he glances at Ti. As one, they lower their blades. He stares at the confusion that breaks over Marek’s even features.

“Lorhena,” Ti starts, “you can fight this. There’s no need to continue—”

“You don’t understand, Shaak,” Marek shouts. “I do. I don’t have anything left in the Jedi. The Council is going to expel me. I have to protect something precious.”

Croft stares at her. “You think if you have the Asundrance, if you can control it, the Council will relent?”

She smiles sharply. “No, Taliesin. If I have control of it, the coming darkness will leave me and mine alone. I can protect—”

“What about everyone else, Marek?” Ti asks. “What about the people that could be harmed if you release this upon the galaxy?”

Marek smiles darkly. “I’m not as concerned with anyone else, as much as I once was. Not after—” She stops again and closes her eyes, as if gathering herself. 

She smiles, then looks at Ti and Taliesin. “Maybe that’s not right. I do care about you both. You came with me and believed me, at least to a certain extent. I think that you both need to go.”

“Lorhena—” Ti starts. 

Marek reaches out and touches Ti’s cheek. “No, Shaak. In spite of me, you’ve always given me the benefit of the doubt. Even when we were younglings and in competition. I think that your compassion is your greatest strength. It’s kept you going through so many losses. It’s made you so much stronger.” She shifts her gaze to Taliesin. “I wish I had your Master’s strength, young one. It’s what will make you so much stronger, Padawan.” 

Marek shifts her hand to Taliesin’s cheek. “I know you doubt that you can live up to her training. I know that you take every perceived failure to heart—that you’re failing her and reinforcing the whispers about her skill.” She looks away, unable to meet his eyes. “I’ve done some whispering myself.

“I only hope that my child can grow into something like you, that I can give what you have, Ti.”

Ti shakes her head. “You can’t do anything for Maris if you’re not there to help her grow.”

Marek looks at the ground this time. “I’m not talking about her. She’ll grow without me.” With that, she turns away and begins to walk calmly towards the altar.

“No, Marek!” Ti shouts. “You can’t.”

They both feel Marek’s anger grow. She appears to be walking with her eyes closed. They can both see her lips moving, her face twisted with anger.

“She’s concentrating on the negative—on her pain, Master,” Taliesin says.

Both of them step back, sheathing their blades. 

“Come on, my child,” she says. “We can’t do anything for her.” She takes his hand. Tal raises his eyebrows at the look on her face. He realizes that this look is only for him, a look of raw love—the love of a parent for a child; the love of a teacher for a student. “Concentrate on this, Taliesin. Concentrate on the light.”

They both turn and run. As they do, they see Marek on a deeply forested world. She holds a small child, a boy, to her breast. 

In the physical world, darkness surrounds them as they run. The light dissipates to a impenetrable black. As they reach the end of the horizontal part of the tube, both of them are struck by the power coming from behind them. They manage to leap upwards to the shrinking light from the top of the lava tube. They land outside, their hands still firmly gripped.

Taliesin collapses on the ground. His master slumps to her knees beside him. He looks at Ti, his vision fading. In their minds, they see the altar begin to fade from its place in the tube, in a burst of red.

Both of them feel as if something is yanked from them at the last burst of light and darkness behind them.

* * *

Dani Faygan drops the stormtrooper helmet and blaster as she runs from the spot that Nola had dropped her. She ignores the bodies of the stormtroopers who had tried to impede her movement. She reaches up with her right hand and pulls her hair free of the binding that she had worn under the helmet. She tightens the grip on her own smoking blaster and moves towards the flash of energy she can see in the distance. She had seen those types of flashes on several occasions, being intimately familiar with some of the bearers of those ancient weapons that would cause them. As she runs, she feels the familiar warmth in her emotional resonance—the signature that had been present in the gift of her people for nearly a decade. A signature that only in the last few days had come back to the forefront, rather than the background.

She comes out into a bright clearing. Her heart twists as she sees Ti being forced back by the blows of a red lightsaber. She remembers her brief sight of Shaak and Taliesin dueling with the darksider, Asajj Ventress, on Corellia. There had never been a question of her not-yet lover’s victory, as her power had overwhelmed Ventress—no mean feat, given the assassin’s later propensity for killing Jedi and clones. 

This was different. The young human that she fights has forced her back to the edge of a deep pit. Her eyes tear as she sees Shaak’s form in her world’s hunting attire, the barely concealed power, and _oh yes, the beauty_ , even as she struggles against her opponent. An opponent wearing the cog of the entity responsible for the death of thousands of her fellow Jedi. 

As she pulls the last of the bindings on her hair free, she reaches down with her left hand and draws her blaster. She sights at the Imperial—an Inquisitor, as Bryne had once described them. She starts to pull the trigger, hoping she can distract Shaak’s opponent long enough for her to push him back. As she does, her mind finally touches on two questions that had been nagging at her since she had laid eyes on her heart-bond—the bond of her Inner heart, in the words of her birthworld. 

_How? Why now?_

Dani shakes her head, trying to dispel the distraction of the question. She pulls the trigger. As she does, there is a bright flash of light. A flash much larger than expected from her blaster. As the light burst expands in her vision, moving towards her, she loses sight of Shaak and the Imperial. 

She screams as her vision and senses seem to freeze. Dani snaps her eyes closed, squeezing them tightly. She hears a warm voice, a voice she had heard in joy and in sorrow, in illness and in ecstasy. She slowly opens her eyes. 

She sees only darkness. The familiar outline of her beloved form in front of her. Close to her. Close enough to touch. Some small part of her denies that she will be able to touch Shaak, or be touched by her. Her breathing intensifies with the emotions running through her heart and mind. 

Through her body. As if time stands still, she sees Shaak reach out, her long fingers lifting, ever so slowly towards Dani’s face. 

Dani sees the smile—the warm, serene, and always compassionate smile break out on Shaak’s features. A smile with just a hint of devilment for her and her alone. 

She expects her emotions to fall with disappointment. 

They don’t, as she feels the cool hand touch her cheek. 

Dani Faygan surrenders to the touch, even as her mind knows it is impossible.


	23. Something I have to whisper as I kneel beside you...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Focus, Ti says. You must be careful that you’re not taken by the Asundrance. With you and Ahsoka, as well as what is already there, the Asundrance might just overtake everything. It might destroy the balance even more than it already is. There might be no hope for the galaxy._
> 
> _He shakes his head. Brood pulls out her twin sabers, ones that he remembered from sparring with her. Weapons that no one had designed for years. She grips the side-handled blades, igniting them. He notes the crimson blades, the mark of crystals that had been bled._
> 
> _By a dark side user._

Dillani—known as the Fearless among his village, at least mostly unironically, places one of his darts precisely in the cheek of the hardshell wearing a flared helmet as the Imperial takes aim at one of the crimson ones. He smiles at his malespawn firing the unfamiliar hardshell weapon at the weapon’s former owners. A part of his brain and heart hurts with the necessity of Geordai having to learn something other than the traditional dart-thrower of a hunter. 

Dilanni and Geordai look up as two ships flare in over their heads. Both ships open fire with their heavy cannon, making short work of the hardshell vehicles attempting to break through the wall. He realizes that the hardshells—or at least the few that are left are retreating to the south towards the village. The two ships split apart, the smaller one staying above while the larger moves down to their position. 

He takes a deep breath and looks at the others as they come to join him and Geordai. The crimson ones, a male and a female, plus two human females, are joined by the pirates, two different ones, of species that Dilanni doesn’t recognize. Personally, he thinks that both of them, an older female with tusks along her jaw and wrinkled skin and a younger one with tusks everywhere on his light colored, stone-like face, are ugly, but they did come to their aid. Geordai would chide him for such narrow thoughts, he thinks with pride. _Obviously, his mother’s influence._

Dilanni’s eyes widen as a figure appears in the hatch of the larger ship, the one with the dark green stripe circling it. A tall figure with dark skin and braided, graying dark hair flying in the breeze. He sees the dark green hardshell that the human, or like-human wears; it appears to be made to cover a lot less surface area. Dilanni can just make out a yellow stripe imprinted across the bridge of the warrior’s nose, under his eye-holes. 

“That’s Quinlan Vos,” the male crimson one, the one known as Iron, says. 

“I thought he was dead—killed when the Jedi were destroyed,” one of Iron’s female counterparts says.

“How the hell did he get on that ship?” another asks. “How come we didn’t have him on our side?”

Dilanni sees Iron close his eyes and once again feels the warm sensation that seems to be centered on his stalk. He smirks as he sees his malespawn’s wide eyes at the same sensation. 

The one that Iron called Vos jumps down and begins to sprint at preternatural speed to the east. He leaps, as Dilanni had seen the Jedi of old leap, then disappears from view. 

“I don’t know,” Iron starts. “His emotional signature isn’t the same.”

“That’s because it ain’t him,” says another voice. Dilanni turns and feels his heart warm at the sight of the young pirate apprentice, the one they called Meglann. His eyes mist as he sees another young woman, this one slightly taller and with silver hair tufted up from her smooth head, support Meglann as they walk up. 

“What do you mean?” Iron asks. 

“That would be our so-called unconscious-and-on-his-deathbed Corellian,” she says, smiling against the pain. “He got better.”

“How do you know?” Iron asks skeptically.

“Because I was just hugging him. We turned around to head this way. When we looked back he was gone.”

No one asks her to explain as they board the ship. Dilanni and Geordai look at one another, each wondering if they have a future on their homeworld.

* * *

Ahsoka manages to keep her feet as she stumbles into the clearing where she can hear the clash of lightsabers. The space flips; she isn’t sure how she got to this particular area from the pit she had been in. She can sense the growing power in the Force, a sensation filtered through uncertainty—both her own, as well as whatever entity is projecting the sensation. 

Ahsoka feels it begin to poke and prod at her shields as she increases them. She wonders if they will be enough. She feels a couple of dry voices, one with a drawling inflection, one with a light accent from certain clan-lands on her birthworld, begin to speak in her mind.

 _Go with it, Runt_ , the drawl says. 

_My child of the Hunt says what needs to be said, my fierce little huntress_ , the other voice says. _If a bit flippantly, as always_ , the Ti-voice finishes, the laughter apparent. 

She manages to laugh at both voices, both sounding at the same time, but distinctly heard in her brain. She feels just a hint of aggrieved teenager from Bryne’s, a sensation she last felt when they were much younger and their world was innocent. She closes her eyes, even though the area is suddenly lit with bursts of light, her eyelids are dark. 

Dark except for the warm green, gold, and purple flashes, growing brighter—brighter than she has seen since Bryne Covenant’s Force sense had taken an occasional, _well, frequent_ vacation. Since he had given his own energy to help her heal, multiple times, before she had even asked.

She opens her eyes at another sensation; one just as familiar. She feels her eyes tear as she sees Dani kneeling near the pit where Ti’s form had fallen.

The Inquisitor—the young human male that Ahsoka had dueled at the garrison—a lifetime ago, it felt, stands, looking down at the pit. Dani rises as she realizes Ahsoka is present. Ignoring the Inquisitor and his damaged, sputtering red lightsaber, she runs to Ahsoka. 

Ahsoka pulls her into her arms. “Hey, sweetie,” she says into Dani’s delicate ear. “I’m here.”

“He killed Ti!” Dani says sharply. She look down. “Or at least I think he did,” she whispers plaintively. 

“I know. It’s strange, Dani-love,” Ahsoka says. “I’m not sure, but I think this is just one part of your heart-bond,” she says. “We’ve already mourned her. You, Jame, and me.”

Dani moves her face to Ahsoka’s chest. Ahsoka can feel the tears dotting her top and the skin above. She can feel the indecision. 

“I know,” Dani whispers against her. “She told me that she loved me—that she would always love me. I felt her, my _ta’in’gere_. I felt her cool skin, just as I feel yours, now.”

Ahsoka smiles, places a kiss against Dani’s warmer forehead. “Then she said what she needed to, love. She said exactly what you needed her to.”

She hears a a throat clearing. The Inquisitor is walking towards them, his lightsaber firm in his hands.

“I guess I get to kill another one,” he says. His voice is overlaid with another.

“Maybe, bud,” she says. “But I don’t think so.” Ahsoka kisses Dani, allowing her lips to linger, then pushes her away. 

As Dani clears her, she brings her lightsabers up and pulls them apart, the white blades growing from each other. She manages to get into her stance, just as he leaps and swings down.

The flash of energy from the intersecting blades pushes her back. She feels her eyes go wide at the increased power with which he strikes. A change from when they had dueled before.

Ahsoka begins to parry, unable to strike from the onslaught of blows that the Inquisitor rains down on her. His eyes are sharply in focus, edged in bright red. Her Force sense gives her a puzzling reading. She can sense more than one signature in his own.

She can also sense his uncertainty, his conflict. 

Ahsoka Tano begins to fight anew, as she seems to feel others guiding her as well. Her eyes focus on bright blue eyes, a scar through one of them, at least in her memory. 

Violet and warm green are present—not just in her memory.

Neither combatant sees Dani move down towards an altar-like structure, a bright collection of teeth in her right hand. One that seems to have appeared from nowhere.

Darkness rises, in the middle of the day.

* * *

Bryne stares at the remains of the Red Temple, one of two places where his master’s and his odyssey had begun, those years ago. The place that Lorhena Marek had insisted on avoiding for some unknown reason, in favor of the Gray Temple. 

A place they had gone against his better judgement. A place that he was sure had activated the whole mess that they had gotten into. The one that had nearly cost them both so much. 

_It didn’t_ , says Ti’s warm voice through his newly powerful Force sense—through something approximating the long-severed training bond. _We lived. We had nearly another ten years. Years I wouldn’t give up for anything, my child._

He fights the tears streaming from his Quinlan face, unable to feel the different planes of his former Shadow-Teacher’s face. He feels the smirk form in his mind from Ti. _Not bad, Taliesin. You got most everything right. Although you get to see things really close when somebody’s lying on top of you, staring down—_

“Whoa, Master. Too much information! You and Vos?” he exclaims, his words jumbled together. 

_I wasn’t dead, Tal. Even before I knew you. He helped me heal. In spite of his reputation, he was a compassionate man. You just had to reach down and find it._

“Yeah, well, let’s just not go into detail about what else you reached down for,” he says. He feels her laughter in his mind. One of the things that he missed about being her student. The easy laughter between them. _The joy._

His double-vision, the gift of precognition that was a part of any Force user, any Jedi trained in its use, tweaks his mind. Something flashes out of the corner of his eye. He sees Lorhena Marek standing near the side of the lava tube. An older human male lies next to her, dressed in the uniform of an ISB agent. Her eyes move over his new form; he knows that she has the same ability and can see him, at least partially, as he is. 

_It’s good that you chose Quinlan. In spite of their differences, he was a Master, as she was, who was also a Shadow,_ Ti says in his mind. _You have to reach out, to fight the darkness of this place. You need to separate Marek’s consciousness from the Asundrance._

He feels his eyebrows rise at her words. “Won’t that cause the Asundrance to destroy everything? That’s what the texts say,” he says, remembering. 

Bryne feels her smile in his mind. _No, Tal_ , she says. _That’s what those early creators got wrong, when they allowed themselves to join with what they created. The Asundrance can’t function without consciousness. It took Marek—especially the dark aspects. It will take someone to wrest her away. Someone in the light at the three Temples. Someone in possession of something else. Something that I think Lorhena realized at some point she had._

“We need to get someone to the other Temples, Master,” he says. “I don’t know where Ahsoka is.”

She smiles in his mind again. _I think that she has already claimed one—the White Temple. She might’ve left a part of herself there. Something powerful, that neither of you might understand. She’s moving towards the Gray Temple, to restore the balance. The only thing missing might be someone dark, here.”_

“That would be me, Master Vos,” comes a familiar voice, or at least one from the mists of Bryne’s memory. The voice intrudes in his mind, just for an instant, as well as his ears. 

He turns and sees her removing crimson armor, until she is clad only in trousers and a brief halter. A Zabrak woman of around his own age staring at him. He remembers her features as she had stared down at him, her nails scoring his chest as she rode him, her features angry.

Just before they had left on this mission. Maris Brood. Lorhena Marek’s padawan learner. 

He hears a snort in his mind. _Really? Is there anyone in your age-group that you didn’t stick your yeoned into?_ Ti’s mind-voice asks. 

_I think there were a couple I missed,_ he thinks dryly. _Probably should’ve missed this one._

 _Focus,_ Ti says. _You must be careful that you’re not taken by the Asundrance. With you and Ahsoka, as well as what is already there, the Asundrance might just overtake everything. It might destroy the balance even more than it already is. There might be no hope for the galaxy._

He shakes his head. Brood pulls out her twin sabers, ones that he remembered from sparring with her. Weapons that no one had designed for years. She grips the side-handled blades, igniting them. He notes the crimson blades, the mark of crystals that had been bled. 

By a dark side user. 

He ignites Ti’s blade, reversing his grip. He shifts his feet, knowing that dueling with the reverse grip, rather than just using it for deflection of bolts, can be dangerous, if not matched with flawless footwork. 

Something he and a certain Togruta youngling had worked on for hours and hours, combining footwork, the grip and sarcasm. 

His mind clears as he runs towards Brood. His blade swings at her midsection; her blades intersect, then swing overhand at his head. He sends a rock from the wall towards her head. She meets it with one of her own, as more of the lava-rock starts to fall around them. He notices as he fights her that her Force signature gives off another, more familiar signature. 

Maris Brood begins to glow as their blades thrust, swing, and parry; the energy builds with every strike.

More and more rocks fall towards them as the Temple begins to collapse.

The light builds towards an explosion.

* * *

Dani watches the flash of lightsabers, as if from a distance, as Ahsoka duels the Imperial. She had only seen such power in Ahsoka once. Once when she and Ahsoka had stood against a wall, their hands bound, facing a dozen blaster muzzles. When Ahsoka had used her power to defeat and kill the Imperial sending them to their deaths, using her own sabers hanging from the woman’s belt. 

When a loved one had been threatened. 

In spite of Ahsoka’s raw power, she sees her giving ground against the human. She pulls her blaster, despairing of what she could do against the raw display of power. She feels her heart calm, as that familiar feeling flows over her, whenever any of her loves are present. Dani feels it grow in her heart.

She sees the Inquisitor pause, holding Ahsoka’s blades at bay. He shakes his head. It is at that moment that Dani, a being completely filled with love, realizes what will defeat this thing—this twisted thing. 

She sees Ti’s smiling face as they wrap cloths around their wrists on her love’s homeworld. She sees Bryne and Ahsoka together in a rare, quiet moment. She sees the faces of Meglann and Nola as the four of them determine their future—a future with Bryne and Ahsoka. She sees her father looking at her with pride and love; her mother stands next to him.

Her eyes tear as she sees a little girl with honey-gold hair lying next to her, her gray eyes laughing, just before she wraps her arms tightly around Dani’s neck, squeezing her to her as if she would never let go. 

Dani looks down at the headdress in her hand, her heart-bond’s pride and accomplishment. One that was mirrored in her other loves, Ahsoka and Bryne. She realizes what she has to do. She has to let go of something. She has to let go so that the fleeting glimpses of what she can feel in her emotional resonance—all separated—all asunder can join together. 

The opposite of Asundrance. She feels that which could defeat the power—no, those, she thinks idly, begin to come together. 

Three aspects of three different emotional signatures—two familiar, one not, but all filled with some type of what is growing, in different forms.

 _Love_.

She takes a step towards the altar, the thing that seems to be holding those three apart. 

She is struck by a heavy body from her left side. Her blaster goes flying. She manages to hold on to the headdress as she hits the ground. Her now-empty left hand swings at the older human’s head. Her resonance can only feel anger coming from the ISB agent.

She feels his fists begin to connect with her body. She manages to shove one fist away with her right hand, then swings with it. He cries with pain as the teeth in the headdress slice across his face. His pain gives her the leverage to roll from under him. He moves towards her again. 

“Don’t you understand?” he screams. “It demands a sacrifice. Something important. Only then can I free my love!”

He turns to the Inquisitor. Both Ahsoka and her opponent pause, their blades locked again. “Galen! Galen Marek. Your mother awaits you!”

At that moment, she sees realization grow over the Inquisitor’s handsome features. She feels a tiny spark of something other than anger and darkness from them both.

She feels the spark of that which warms her, that she feels from Ahsoka. She sees Ahsoka drop her blades down, just as the Inquisitor—no, Galen, does. The tableau freezes as light builds from the altar. 

Realization hits her again. She knows that she must make the sacrifice. Not her life—never that, but something that she cherishes. 

Cherishes as a symbol of love, not the love itself. She can feel Ti smiling at her. 

_Let go, my love. I’m always with you, where I need to be._

She turns back to the altar, begins to walk towards it, again. She feels the ISB agent fall to his  
knees. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him nod. She feels the anger flow away from him. 

Dani stops before the altar and lifts the headdress. She looks at it one last time and throws it at the altar. As it strikes, she feels those three aspects that she had felt earlier come together. 

One, a full consciousness, the other two, only parts of them. Parts taken from their owners during their last visit. One, a tiny bit of an arcane power. The other, a powerful grief for those that she had lost. Only a part.

As her body warms with the familiar feelings—the familiar signatures, a burst of light claims her vision—all of it. 

She hears Galen scream; she sees him reach towards the sky as the light suffuses his body.

Dani Faygan smiles as she feels Ahsoka’s hand on hers. Another joins her other hand.

She loves.

* * *

Galen Marek stands frozen in the light. His mind’s vision clears as he feels realization flow through the Force. He feels a set of warm furry arms around his teenaged self, holding him tightly as darkness pervades his Force sense. He feels the arms fall away from him as a red lightsaber grows from the Wookiee’s chest, as he hears the bellows of pain as his foster family is executed by white clad figures.

He feels an even younger self being held tightly in newly-familiar arms. A rough brown robe scratches his face as as a dark-haired woman, her depthless royal blue eyes tearing as she moves him into the arms of the mother of the Wookiee family. 

Galen hears the woman speak to him in his mind, as she had taught him. _I will return, my little Starkiller. This will be our little secret. Close your feelings. Just as I taught you._

 _Mother!_ his child-self screams. He feels warmth again, as he hears her voice in his head—-not the younger version of his recovered memories. 

_I’m here, my love. My heart. My child. You must stop fighting the young woman. She will help you. She is like another—no, others—that I’ve known in my life. Filled with the light. It’s what I wanted for you, when I left you with Maggathordaru and her family. She knew what it meant to be the mother of a Force sensitive. Her oldest child went with the Jedi._

Galen sees an earnest young Wookiee, a red sash about his middle with a wooden-handled lightsaber hanging from it. The youngling looks up at a young, bearded human male, a human who smiles with pride at him. He incongruously laughs at the one tooth poking out of the young Wookiee’s smiling mouth, on the left side. A name flashes in his head. 

_Gungi._

Those visions vanish into his mind as another comes to the forefront. A huge, dark, armored figure, stentorian breathing echoing through his hearing. The figure—another name flashes into his head— _Vader_ —swings a crimson lightsaber into another Wookiee body. 

Pain lances through his entire being as he remembers the training of this figure, of feeling something like grudging approval as he manages to keep limbs when sparring with the Dark Lord.

He hears his mother’s warm tones again. _Let go of hate, my child. Keep hold of vengeance, but focus on my love. It’s what will save you. You and the others. You have my power, as well as what took me from you._

_Send a message to the darkness. Let Vader know._

Galen feels the power grow in him. He sees an Imperial starship, an armed freighter near the planet he is on. The Imperial batters a Corellian corvette, its dark paint and crimson stripe a contradiction of the light that he feels from within the vessel.

He reaches upward with one hand, then outward with the other. He feels the minions of the Dark Lord, the ones who have survived, falling before his power. All save two. One, who is no longer a servant of the dark and the Sith Empire. His father.

The other seems to be protected by another aspect—another segment of his mother.

He feels his power grow with the light as he reaches up to the Imperial ship.

* * *

Lassa twists the control yoke sideways, trying to stay out of the Imp’s sights. She feels the sluggishness of her ship, the result of the repeated hammering from the _Gozanti’s_ guns. 

She hears Biggo’s mournful barking over the intercom net, tries to push it out of her mind. 

_+You keep slamming that damaged stabilizer package around like that, twit, we’re going to be nothing but gas and debris,+_ she says. 

“Everybody’s a goddamned critic,” Lassa manages to reply, shifting again. “Perhaps you’d like to get your big hairy ass up here and show me how it’s done?”

 _+Nope. Maybe we need somebody younger flying. Maybe that Alderaani chit that seems to alternately piss you off and get your motor running all the time,+_ Biggo snarks. Lassa hears a Shyriwook curse as she jinks again, accompanied by a sharp thud over the pickup.

“Hey, Skipper, we’re trying to keep up the fire, but we don’t have enough gunners,” Adis breaks in. 

“I know, Guns,” she replies. “You’re doing great.”

“Wow, is that praise from Lassa Rhayme?” I think that we’re doomed,” comes another voice, this one from an external frequency. A holo pops up on the repeater between her and her copilot. 

Meglann Florlin stares at her as she pulls a bandage tight on Nola Vorserrie. Nola looks dazed, but is breathing. She sees Meglann wince as she pulls, her hands moving to her left side. She nods at Lassa. “Your crew’s safe. We’re still trying to locate Bryne, Dani, and Ahsoka.”

The hologram expands to include the full bridge of the _Draq’stone_. Gri and Sohlwey sit at different consoles. Meglann’s eyes shift to the pilots’ seats. The hairy Alderaani cop, sits next to the big and bald one. They both look back at Meglann. 

She concentrates on Nola’s wound; the bacta pad staunches some of the blood. Lassa understands the pilots’ looks.

“Hey, Junior, you need to take charge there. They’re going to be busy getting you out of there. You need to take command and find your missing.”

Meglann’s eyes widen. “What? No! I can’t take charge. I’m not ready.”

“Honey, Organa gave you that shiny bauble above your tits for a reason. Ahsoka seems to think you’re ready.” Lassa smiles. “I think you’re ready, too, Meglann,” she finishes. 

She sees Meglann look down at the rank plaque on her half-armor. She touches it, as if thinking seriously of tearing it off and throwing it away. Nola lifts her uninjured hand and touches Meglann’s cheek. 

After another agonizing moment, Meglann turns to Boge M’Faru, the huge co-pilot. “Tight beam on the sensors. Work with Phygus on the _Beskad_. Find me sensor paints for Togruta and Zeltron.”

Thyla breaks into Lassa’s hearing. “Captain. Something’s going on with that Imp!” she shouts. 

Thyla Secura never shouts. 

She kills the holotransmission, then turns to the port. “Son of a bitch,” she exclaims. 

The _Gozanti_ is out of control, yawing and rolling away from them. The pounding has stopped as the Imperial tries to right herself. 

It is as if something is pulling it towards Felucia. Oddly, Lassa sees something in her mind. A young human male with an outstretched hand, pulling the ship towards him. She shakes her head.

Just in time to see one of the moons get in the way of the vessel’s descent. 

Lassa sees a cloud of dust and debris kicking up as nose of the armed freighter plows into the surface, shattering in an explosion of gas and debris. 

She doesn’t waste time wondering about how. She toggles the switch for the Tannoy. “Gunners, secure from stations. Help Biggo lock down those stabilizers. Sensors lock on and help the others locate our Quartermaster and Cook.” She smirks. “As well as that Zeltron twit.”

She yanks the yoke, nosing her ship towards the planet. 

Behind them, the dust and plasma hangs in null-g on the small moon; more explosions rock the satellite.

* * *

Bryne Covenant fights the overwhelmingly bright light. He feels as if he is swimming upstream, swimming in heavy armor. _Oh wait. He is._

As the light pervades his senses, he does feel patches of darkness and death. He feels the same mixed power he had felt earlier seize an Imperial ship and crash it into the mountains of the moon. The power gives off a slightly different signature, as if someone else is now wielding it, rather than the familiar arrogance of Lorhena Marek. He reaches out with his Force sense; he can’t sense any other of the Imperials that he had felt as they fought his loved ones—at least not in that close proximity. 

As he reaches out, Bryne feels a strange sensation touching over the skin of his not-face, the product of the Face-Dance. He screams at the uncertainty of feeling Quinlan Vos’s face ripping away from his consciousness. The sensation of his own face—even the one that he presents to most of the universe—snapping back to his skull is something that he had never felt before when coming ‘down’ from a Face-Dance. He manages to sheathe his saber’s blade and place it in its pouch with one hand, while scrubbing his face with the other. He reassures himself that his face is still there.

As he does, he feels the Force begin to shrink around him. He cries out again as his hard-won, recovered senses begin to disappear; they begin to fade. He reaches out, clinging to it, but to no avail. He manages to grab onto the tricolored light in his senses, tightly grabbing onto it as the rest fades away. 

Ti’s voice cuts through his desperation. _You are strong, my son_ , she says. _You’ve been the man that I taught, the powerful, compassionate man that I watched you grow into, without it. It’s your love that will see you through this darkness._

“No, Master!” he cries. “I need it. I need it if I’m going to help Ahsoka fight that darkness!”

There is no reply. Even though there is no substance for him to touch, he feels himself slump, as if to the ground, in the brightness. He feels his heart twist in despair. At that precise instant, he hears another voice in his Force sense—the personification of the blue-orange-white light in his mind. 

_I never said that, Bait_ , Ahsoka says. _I told you that I needed your strength. Your courage. Your compassion_. He feels the sensation of her tears on him. _I need what you always give. I need you._

He hears the voices begin to overlay, from Nola’s Mid-Rim, to Meglann’s tiny hint of Alderaani— finally to Dani’s Corellian drawl. _The Force doesn’t make you what we love, the voices say. You’re complete without it. We’ll have your strength and your love._

 _Dumbass_ , the chorus finishes. He laughs. “Just in case I didn’t know it was y’all,” he says to the air. 

He feels his breathing calm as Ahsoka’s cool, familiar hand touches his, grasping it. His consciousness begins to fade as he feels Dani’s warmer take his other up, squeezing it tightly. 

The bright light fades into darkness and silence, as it brings them back together.

* * *

Shaak Ti moves her padawan’s arm tighter across her shoulders as she pulls him away from the newly-formed pit—the pit where Lorhena Marek had last been seen. The place where the other Jedi Master had finally learned what it had meant to serve others, rather than her own ambition. Shaak suspects that Lorhena had already known how, based on the visions of the small child at her breast—a forbidden attachment, but one that had probably taught her fellow youngling, initiate, and padawan, compassion. 

She cautiously opens her Force-sense in an attempt to find the presence that had very nearly claimed Taliesin Croft’s soul for its own. A presence that had forced them both to move between the light and the dark.

She senses that both she and Tal had left something—some tiny aspect of themselves with Marek and the presence. Only time will tell what those somethings will be, or what affect their loss will have on them both. 

Shaak feels nothing.

Only pain from the young man on her arm. Pain and self-loathing as he reflects on his part in her near-death. Of his responsibility, for yet another mistake. 

One that she doesn’t consider a mistake at all. If it was, then all children would constantly disappoint their parents. 

Someday, when he has a padawan of his own, she hopes that he will see that the good parents, or masters, are never disappointed. Only constantly striving to teach and to love. She knows that he has taken to heart all of the whispers about her skills, that this will be a burden he will bear throughout his apprenticeship, trying to live up to his own standards of being a padawan. Of not having to be rescued, either from his tongue or an actual threat. 

Shaak stops, feeling the tears of pride and love spilling down her cheeks. She will never begrudge how many times she has to save him. 

None will ever equal what she knows to be true in her heart of hearts.

He had saved her after her losses. 

She closes her eyes against the memories of Atti and Fe Sun. 

She lets the tears flow, dotting the shoulder of his robe.


	24. And you must pray for me before you fall asleep.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ahsoka shakes her head, again, wondering why she is suddenly shy in front of both of these people. Dani lifts her head from her shoulder, staring into Ahsoka’s eyes. “Really, Daaineran,” she says. “I’m okay.” She looks at Bryne, who stares at them both, nods softly. “I’m at peace. I know that I may never know what happened to Anakin. I just know that he’s gone.” Her eyebrow markings raise as she sees both of them look down at their feet. She realizes at that moment, the reason for the distance. “No!” she cries. “I don’t begrudge either of you knowing what happened to Ti. I never have. I’m so glad that both of you got to get some more closure.” She reaches over and touches Dani’s lips with hers, allowing her lips to linger. “Especially you, ta’in’gere,” she finishes. She sees Bryne smile at the Zeltron words._
> 
> _Words that approximate their relationship on Ahsoka’s world. Hunt-brother and sister. Words that are unpronounceable to Bryne in her language, but just as beautiful as the Zeltron. Sisters and brothers of the heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More beautiful art from @rebekahs-art. Wonderful to work with!

Meglann Florlin winces as she dismounts from the _Draq’stone’s_  ramp as the  _Beskad_  flares in next to them, its front ramp lowering and the tiny figure of Phygus Baldrick jumping down.

She feels Yelena Dao move up next to and lift her right arm to her own shoulder, opposite her injured side. She shakes her head, thinking that since she had first left Alderaan several months ago, she was now going to be spending her third stint in bacta—something she had never been in, except for casts for childhood breaks.

She sees Jaten Gorlute walk up next to her, supporting Nola, whose only visible injury seems to be a deep vibroaxe cut on her left arm, other than a decidedly unsteady look in her dark eyes from flying off of a yawing speederbike at full thrust.

Meglann smiles at her fellow Link. _I guess we’ll be in side-by-side bacta tanks somewhere_ , she thinks. She brings her forehead to Nola’s, helping her to center herself. Jaten allows Yelena, as she is closer in height to Nola to take her from him. Meglann tests her own stance, she feels like a knife is being placed in her side with every step, but she can walk.

“Thanks for the offer of the _Beskad_. We’ll take care of her until you can get her.” Jaten says. His five other chaos bringers, who Meglann had never gotten to know, move over to the shuttle. Arseven greets them at the ramp, all the while reading them the rules of the ship.

Gri, the young midshipman, once again a part of Lassa’s crew, walks up to her. Meglann feels her face flush with heat as he actually raises his fingertips to his brow. Nola and Yelena giggle at her confusion. She nods self-consciously, rather than returning the salute.

“We’ve found them,” he says.

The three young women follow Gri through a low, arboreal forest, the bright colored and translucent flora marking the tiny trail to a clearing. Meglann looks around. She is sure that this was the area of the Red Temple. She looks over the distance, to the White Temple. Only the wall of foliage remains; there are no signs of even the dead Imperials. She stops. Her breath catches in her throat, as she sees the three figures lying together, their hands clasped tightly.

Bryne is in the middle, his face and body now shifted back to his own. She smiles at the peace present on all three beloved faces. Nola joins her smile and nods at their steadily rising chests.

Dani is the first to stir, followed by Ahsoka, then Bryne. Within a moment, all three are sitting up, their eyes perplexed.

Phygus walks over to them, his hand encumbered by that of a skinny Pantoran slicer. No one had actually seen how Ano had managed to get to Felucia, when she was supposed to still be on Zeltros.

All of them jump at a large explosion a ways away. Meglann narrows her eyes at Ano, who smiles and lifts her middle finger. _Guess we won’t have to worry about that stolen ship_ , Meglann thinks.

Phygus takes Ano and hugs her tightly. Meglann looks at Nola with amazement as Ano lets him, even smiling and running her fingers awkwardly through the stubble on his shaven head.

Meglann turns back to the trio on the ground. Ahsoka manages to lever herself up, then pulls the other two up. Bryne is the only one that sways; Ahsoka and Dani both manage to catch him. He looks ruefully at the smashed DC-15S, a treasured friend for as long as Meglann has known him.

“How are you, my love of loves?” Dani asks.

Ahsoka looks at Bryne. “I’m okay,” he says. He smiles at her, then kisses her on her nose. “How about you, Runt?”

She merely smiles. His eyes narrow, as does Meglann’s at her nonanswer.

“How did all of you get here? You’re across the valley from where all of you were,” Meglann asks.

“Not exactly, Meglann,” Bryne replies. “I was over here.” He looks around. “There might be another big bad around here. Unless she got sent away by whatever the hell brought us together.”

“The Asundrance?” Ahsoka asks. Meglann looks at the two ex-Jedi quizzically.

“Maybe, Ahsoka,” he replies. “I think Dani turned the tide.”

Dani shakes her head. “I think that we all did.”

“Might want to stand on it,” says a voice in a sharp Pantoran accent over their comms. “ImpStar jumping in.”

Meglann feels herself gathered up in Ahsoka’s arms. She starts to protest, but quiets as Ahsoka begins to run towards the _Draq’stone._ Behind them, the _Beskad_ is already lifting off. They see the _Opportunity_ screaming in, flying nap of the earth from the north.

“Everybody form on me,” Lassa says. “Going to have to fly real close to the ground to the other side of the planet. There’s a hyperspace lane on that side—one that not too many people know about.”

 _Not too many people, meaning smugglers_ , Meglann thinks. She is surprised that Ahsoka manages to keep from jostling her injured ribs too much. _Not exactly a dignified entrance for the captain,_ she thinks.

She turns and looks behind her. Bryne is walking purposefully towards the ship. Dani is stopped. She bends over and picks something up on the ground. Meglann starts to shout at her, feels Ahsoka’s hand on her cheek.

Dani manages to catch up to them all, with not even a hitch in her step. Meglann smiles at her as they board the old ship.

“Get us out of here, Murta,” Meglann says into the intercom to the pilot. She allows Ahsoka to put her down, then hugs her tightly to her.

She sees that Ahsoka returns the hug, but her eyes are locked with Bryne’s.

 _All is right with the universe_ , Meglann thinks.

* * *

The One in the Middle watches. He can sense relief coming from several circles among the Ashla and the Bogan. He smiles slightly as another who watches, the one called Kenobi, keeping a lonely vigil over a moisture farm on Tatooine, calms in his Force sense. Bendu can sense his memories as well, memories of the one that had been called the Chosen One and their adventures. The Bendu chuffs slightly as he senses Kenobi’s thoughts turn again to the young woman who had helped defeat the Asundrance. He feels the sadness and the grief welling up from the Master.

He shakes his head, focusing on the two ex-Jedi; the two who had returned the Asundrance to its own slumber. The two who had left the Jedi Order, both actions as a result of one’s betrayal by that body. The Bendu can sense their uncertainty as to the next path, but both are healing from their losses, growing in their bonds. The Protector, the one the Bendu had thought would only protect the minion of the Daughter, had turned out to be key in the defeat of that which would tear the two sides apart.

Both of them show concern for another, not a Force-user, but one connected to that teacher that the Asundrance had used. He nods with satisfaction, but with a bit of puzzlement. The Jedi had always eschewed attachments, as they called them, lumping all together as unhealthy.

All three of these in the light, had used their attachments—not just their love—to defeat the Asundrance. Even the one that might still be part of that entity, had finally turned the tide by focusing on the love of his mother, who had, in reality, started the whole thing—for _love_.

He only gives quick thoughts to the practitioners of the Bogan, the dark side. There is relief, but only a slight sensation. Mostly, the Sith were disappointed that they had lost out on the power that the Asundrance represented.

The Bendu allows his eyes to close. The galaxy is still in deep imbalance. The darkness is everywhere. But a tiny bit more of the light is present, reflected in the love that had defeated the Asundrance.

The love, as well as a small sacrifice—a tenet of the Jedi, but one tempered with that love and compassion that filled the trio and their allies.

The Bendu returns to his sleep; but continues to watch. To listen to the winds of the Living and the Cosmic Force.

* * *

Bryne slowly walks along the path of a different arboreal world. His Force-sense is at rest, but can detect the blue-orange light in his mind. A light that had been his salvation on Felucia—a light that had allowed him to give up the last vestiges of the Asundrance in his mind. The part that had held his Master’s spirit in thrall in the dark part of its aspect. His heart rises as he feels the light of Ahsoka’s Force-sense relax.

An instant before he hears her bright laughter, in harmony with the others of their particular group of chaos-bringers.

The Links of the Covenant Chain. Those that bind, that protect, that bolster in the fight against darkness. His sword-mates, in the parlance of the mythology of his father’s world. Even those who they love. He smiles ruefully. Although he holds the title, he realizes that he while he may Protect his world; his part is now to protect and nurture the one who is the Link in the shadows.

The true lever in the fight against the darkness in the larger galaxy.

The Fulcrum.

He stops and closes his eyes. He realizes that all those months ago on Stewjon—over a year ago, when he had pledged himself to fight for her, in his mind if not to her, he had gleaned his role in the coming fight, even voicing it with his typical sarcasm.

The plucky sidekick.

He grins as he opens his eyes and continues his walk. He is comfortable with his role. She had proven herself so much more powerful than he would ever be. As always, he sends a prayer—a mantra—of thanks, to the spirit of Anakin Skywalker, wherever he is, for guiding her into the powerful being that she had become.

He stops at the sight of the tableau before him. The sight of four young women, each with skills of their own, relaxing and recovering from the last fight.

Ahsoka sits on a stump, smiling and laughing with the others; the smile hiding the lines of strain that are just visible to him around her eyes. The strain of fighting a battle—an inner battle that he might be one of the only ones left in the galaxy who could share it with her. He feels his eyes mist over as he turns his gaze to the other three.

Each one dirty, scarred, and recovering from their own hurts—hurts that are probably more physical than Ahsoka’s, but no more or no less affecting.

His heart clinches as he sees Meglann—her eyes still bright, but with a slight shadow of pain in the sparkle. He notices that her arms are folded across her middle. In anyone else, the stance would be casual, as she listens to something that Ahsoka says. Bryne had seen that she had faced one of the crimson-clad guards, then had taken on a very large Imperial fleet trooper; she had taken several blows from the Guard’s force pike, then the fleet trooper’s ham-like fists to her side. An instant before managing to get to the huge Corellian blaster now lying in a pile with other weapons from the trio—a weapon that had been knocked from her hands—a gift from family on yet another world. She’d lifted it and sent the fleetie flying with a double blast from its muzzle. Only a half instant before the trooper’s hand closed on his own blaster.

Being an expert on injuries to the ribcage in his distant youth, he recognizes that she is probably nursing several cracked, if not broken bones. He grins as he sees the half-armor behind her; the rank plaque from her homeworld proudly displayed on the chest.

He wonders whether some of the pain might just be from taking a life for the first time.

His eyes move to the oldest of the four, also seated, across from Ahsoka. As usual, laughter is prominent on her crimson features. He laughs to himself as he sees her clothing—light, revealing, a pair of shorts and a skimpy top—clothing that had been revealed as soon as they had left Felucia, from under the bodysuit and armor of an Imperial stormtrooper that she had purloined.

He recognizes the pain in those laughing purple eyes, pain not physical, but also not in any arcane sense of a mystical energy field, either. A pain in the most important part of a Zeltron’s soul. The heart. The pain of loss relived with the sight of her heart-bond, long dead, but visible once again in the Asundrance’s grasp. A loss that would need to be healed again, but also one that would allow her to remember the oh-so-brief time that Shaak Ti had been a part of her life.

Just as it would for him, as well.

A brief word from Ahsoka to Dani had started that process. They had all three mourned her in Zeltron fashion. Perhaps it was time to mourn her in the tradition of a world of hunters and huntresses; a world that had shaped two of them and nurtured the one that they had lost.

A brief spate of laughter brings his attention back to the quartet. His eyes lock on those of the next-to-youngest, and the tallest. His eyes play over the ex-Handmaiden; the dirt and bruises, coupled with the dirty bandage on her elbow, bely her cool visage. Her eyes move back to Ahsoka after only a brief time, before taking the others in as well. Of them all, her face is free of pain, at least for a moment. He who has known her from the time she was a frightened teenager in a Separatist base, knows that she is taking in the fact that all are alive and mostly whole. Bryne watches her eyes crinkle with a warm smile, before growing serious, again. The brown eyes lock on Ahsoka. She had once been responsible for sending Ahsoka out on the dangerous missions in the early days. He knows that a little bit of her died each time, with the memory of a dead Queen and fellow Handmaidens lying on a marble floor foremost in her mind. Dead she had been unable to prevent, as well as unable to join in the end.

He shakes his head. His eyes widen. For a moment, there is no pain, no memory etched on their faces. Just four young women, each with their own gifts and their memories, living and laughing on a lush world, before a brilliant lake.

Bryne Covenant shifts the data monocle down from his armor and touches the side of it. For a brief second, the scene is captured in the eyepiece, then stored forever.

He knows what is coming next as Dani rises and reaches for the hem of her brief top, while simultaneously toeing her boots off. He grins as he thinks of the four running into the lake, laughing and splashing like children. He starts to move towards them, but stops.

This is their time.

He will go and open a bottle with Adis and Rittambiggo, Lassa’s new Wookiee engineer, or go tracking with Dilanni and Geordai, the two expatriate Felucians. Bryne smiles at the thought of Maz’s two newest employees. He is not sure what Maz needs with a hunter or a rusty spice farmer, but one of her friendly pilots was on their way to pick up Dilanni’s estranged mate and daughter.

He looks longingly at the lake as he hears the splashes, accompanied by a brief scream in Dani’s voice. He shakes his head. There will be time before they all go their separate ways again, for the Covenant and four of the Links of his Chain to live and laugh together.

* * *

Ahsoka lies on the bed in the owner’s suite, watching Bryne towel off. The door opens and Dani walks in, clad only in her favorite gold and black flannel shirt. Ahsoka’s skin is warm from her own shower. They had almost been shy with one another, Bryne allowing her to steam up the ‘fresher, instead of sharing with her.

Ahsoka is unsure where the uncertainty had come from, whether it had originated with him, or with her. She would own up to it. She closes her eyes, allowing her Force sense to open. She detects nothing of the powerful presence that had marked their time on Felucia. She had felt nothing of the Inquisitor, nor of the Imperial Guard Bryne had said that he had faced at the Red Temple. She looks down as she tries to remember Maris Brood. A young woman tortured by the loss of her master, as well as her own failure to be chosen again.

She looks over at Dani. Her own purple eyes watch Bryne carefully, concern oozing through the resonance. She moves her gaze over to Ahsoka, the concern just as palpable.

She grins. “I’m okay, Dani,” she says, staving off any questions that she can see forming on Dani’s mobile face. She closes her eyes. She feels Dani—she identifies the touch by the extra warmth of the skin—take her in her arms. Dani’s lips play over her bare shoulder, above the towel secured loosely over her.

Ahsoka shakes her head, again, wondering why she is suddenly shy in front of both of these people. Dani lifts her head from her shoulder, staring into Ahsoka’s eyes. “Really, Daaineran,” she says. “I’m okay.” She looks at Bryne, who stares at them both, nods softly. “I’m at peace. I know that I may never know what happened to Anakin. I just know that he’s gone.” Her eyebrow markings raise as she sees both of them look down at their feet. She realizes at that moment, the reason for the distance. “No!” she cries. “I don’t begrudge either of you knowing what happened to Ti. I never have. I’m so glad that both of you got to get some more closure.” She reaches over and touches Dani’s lips with hers, allowing her lips to linger. “Especially you, _ta’in’gere_ ,” she finishes. She sees Bryne smile at the Zeltron words.

Words that approximate their relationship on Ahsoka’s world. _Hunt-brother and sister_. Words that are unpronounceable to Bryne in her language, but just as beautiful as the Zeltron. _Sisters and brothers of the heart._

She sees Bryne drop his towel and smiles at his sudden lack of shyness. He walks over to the dresser. She notices that Dani tracks the movement of his ass, both of them smirk at one another.

He lifts an object from his gunbelt, lying on the table. “I found this near you,” he says to Dani. Ahsoka’s heart leaps at Dani’s expression at the object. An object that she thought she had lost, in her willingness to let go.

Half of Ti’s _akul_ tooth headdress, scorched and damaged. Dani lifts it from Bryne’s hands. She pulls it to her forehead, then to her lips. The three of them stare at the last physical remnant, besides Dani’s bonding jewel and Ti’s lightsaber. Ahsoka lifts the tails of Dani’s flannel shirt. She gently touches the spirit jewel with another akul tooth in it. One that Ti had given her, a pair to the jewel that had most probably gone over the side of Tapoca City, on Kamino.

Dani shrugs the garment off. Bryne reaches down and kisses the jewel, resting just above the blue and brown curls. Ahsoka follows suit. Dani closes her eyes. When she opens them, she appears to have made a decision.

“I want to take this to Shili. We—the three of us and the other Links will mourn her in her world’s fashion.

“I’ll return this to her world.”

Ahsoka nods. “All five of us will officiate, if the others agree.”

Bryne looks at them both, then fold them in his arms. “Are you sure, Dani?” he asks.

Ahsoka sees her waver, then firm in her resolve. “Yes, my loves,” she whispers. “It’s time.”

As they hold each other, she sees Dani pull something from the shirt resting on the bed. She hands it to Bryne, whose eyes fall on the object. Her eyes widen at the other akul tooth fused with the small disk.

A small disk that resembles the altar-like object at the Gray Temple, where she and Dani had faced the Inquisitor and whatever other strangeness there.

Just after Shaak Ti had disappeared for the last time.

* * *

Darth Vader watches his troopers of the 501st part ways as he walks towards the small vent of lava, now dormant again. He had already visited the other two sites. The remnants of an old Republic tank had marked the location the farthest to the West. A memory stirs and is quickly quashed. The wreckage of the armed freighter had greeted him on one of the moons as the _Devastator_ had shifted from hyperspace.

He feels his mind reaches out with the Force. As he had when he had arrived, he feels nothing—nothing more than the normal Force signature of this world and its shaak-like citizens. He shakes his head, no more than a millimeter as he absorbs the cost of the Emperor’s ‘disturbance’ in the Force. An Imperial ship destroyed, its mixed force of troopers completely vanished. The senior officer walks up to him and waits respectfully, his bucket hiding the burble of fear that Vader can detect.

“Report, Commander,” he says tersely, his mechanical breathing punctuating the phrase.

“We have found only remnants of the troopers from the _Gozanti_. Remnants consistent with some type of disintegration.”

“What of the garrison?” he asks.

“Some troopers were found at the base near here. Neither they nor the villagers nearby can tell us what happened.” the officer replies.

Vader comes to a decision. “Execute the remaining troopers. Leave their bodies in the village, with a replacement garrison. All stormtroopers from the 501st. Make sure that production of spice is maintained, if not increased.”

“Yes, milord.” The officer bows slightly and turns away. Vader turns his attention to the crimson figure standing patiently. Vader’s eyes fall on the Zabrak standing near Quarta—the royal guard Captain-Adept. He stares impassively at the soon-to-be-former commander. She stares back at him defiantly. Her hands are bound behind her, with Force-suppressant binders.

He reaches out with the Force, focusing it on Nulla. A memory stirs with her true name—Maris Brood. He had not known that a former Jedi had been this close to his master. He wonders if the woman exists to help his master keep him in line—a potential replacement. His red-tinted vision focuses on the smooth throat. He is certain that he will soon be touching that throat with the Force.

Another officer walks up to him, holding a holoprojector. “My lord, the Emperor calls.”

Vader feels a spark of anger at the trooper. “I’ll take it on my shuttle.”

He feels the tremble in the officer’s body. “My lord, the Emperor wishes to include the Guards in the comm.”

Vader waves his hand. He bows as his master’s reptilian gaze stares at them. “Anything, my apprentice?”

“No, my master. Nothing of any disturbance.” He is careful to keep the mocking emphasis from the word.

Palpatine nods. “It is as I sensed. It was there, then it was lost.” He pauses for a half-second. “Your Inquisitor?”

Vader’s anger burns. “There isn’t any sign of the Novice,” he says. He feels his master’s anger spike—a warning.

“Very well. I sense something of him. But I cannot focus on where,” Palpatine says.

He falls silent. His eyes focus on Nulla. “Ahh, my Commander-Adept. You failed me. According to Captain Quarta”—the other guard straightens perceptibly—”you lost or killed the others of my Inner Guard that went with you. You weren’t able to keep the Inquisitor from betraying me.” He shifts his gaze back to Vader. “Something that I will be discussing with my apprentice at a later date. Your interest in the Novice still smacks of grooming an apprentice, Lord Vader.”

“No more than a Force sensitive Guard-Adept smacks of a replacement for me.”

Palpatine smiles, but doesn’t rise at Vader’s rejoinder. “Perhaps. It may be a moot point.”

All four of them wait for the Emperor’s judgement. Vader stares at Brood. She is calm, her breathing even. He senses resignation in her signature, as if she has already been dead, ever since Order 66. His estimation of her rises, if only a tiny bit.

“Perhaps a small punishment. I will need all of my servants in the future,” Palpatine says. “What do you have to say for yourself, Nulla?”

Nulla smiles. “I am yours to serve. To dispose of as you see fit, my Emperor,” she says, the harsh smile seeping into her voice.

If he still had eyebrows, Vader’s would’ve climbed to his burn-scarred skull.

“Captain Quarta,” Palpatine says. The officer stiffens. “My Emperor,” she says.

“Take Commander Nulla’s fingers. Four of them, from her left hand, as I will need the right. One for each of my lost Inner Guards.”

Vader feels the palpable satisfaction from Quarta. She draws and activates a vibroblade, reaching for a control on her wrist. Before she can release the binders, Nulla brings her hands away from her back, the binders hitting the floor. Nulla holds her left hand out, the smile still on her face.

Quarta shakes her head and moves to seize the hand. Her eyes widen behind her visor, as Nulla grabs her own hand, the one with the blade. In a swift movement, she forces the blade up with little effort.

Vader watches as Quarta falls bonelessly to the ground. The vibroblade sticks out of the visor; it is placed precisely in Quarta’s right eye.

All the way to the hilt, into her brain.

Nulla stands calmly, awaiting her fate. “Might as well make it five fingers, my Emperor,” she says.

Palpatine says nothing for several seconds. Finally, the smile returns to his lips. A brief spate of laughter erupts in the air. “Perhaps, Commander.” He nods. “I have two new tasks for you. First, you will remain on Felucia, monitoring the world in the Force. It will be your base. I want to know if the disturbance returns.”

“And the second?” she asks.

“After a time, search for the lost Inquisitor. He is still your problem. When you find him, inform Lord Vader. Lord Vader will dispose of him.”

Vader remains impassive. He stares at Nulla, who stares back at him, with no fear. A smile grows on her lips again. She bows.

Palpatine turns to him. “Carry out my will, my servants.” He fades from view as both of them bow.

Vader stares at Brood—Nulla. “I didn’t hear the Emperor cancel your punishment, Commander.”

He sees just a flicker—a flicker of fear, then resignation on her features. She extends her left hand. The limb is steady.

There is a brief scream as his lightsaber flashes. Both of them stare at her left hand lying on the ground, the fingers twitching.

He looks at Nulla. “I am somewhat familiar with new limbs. I’ll refer you to someone who can do something for you.”

Through her pain, which she is fighting to suppress, she nods.

He turns and stalks back to his ship. His thoughts fall briefly on the sight of a teenaged human male looking up at him, among the ruins of a Wookiee family.

His anger grows as he focuses on that failure.

**Two weeks later  
** **The First Festival Month of the Year 7963 CRC (5 years and 4 months after the Fall)**  
**near Mehele’s Drift, Shili**

The Mother opens her eyes as she hears a noise near the wide entrance of the cave. She hears her cub growl, then quiet as familiar scents, mixed with those unfamiliar, rips the senses. The Mother takes a deep breath. She closes her eyes again for a moment.

The Huntress—the woman who she had shared so many memories with, can no longer be felt as she had for the past several days. She looks up and gives a toothy grin, her failing heart rising with emotion.

Her cub rises and walks over to the three figures who stand in the forefront of the small group. He stops and pushes his head under the hand of his fellow cub. Her vision twists as she sees the Hunter-cub scratching the skull of her own. The Mother’s eyes focus on the two figures next to him. The younger Huntress stands, her arm around him. The Mother takes a deep breath at the raw power of the young woman—almost blinding in her mind’s eye. A power that seems to be fostered by the vision of a small bird, just outside of the cave, circling on the wind drifts.

The Mother shifts her gaze to the smaller figure—one no less powerful than the other two, in her own way. The heart of her Huntress, her mind-sister. The Mother’s heart twists this time as she sees what the heart holds. The Huntress’s trophy, the symbol of her adulthood. She see how the trio is dressed. All are clad in pure white linen garments, made for this occasion only.

For the first time, she sees the two other young women of the Hunter-cub’s people. One, much taller than the rest, except for the huntress and her horns. She smiles at the self-conscious expression of the youngest, self-conscious at the unfamiliar garb.

The Mother knows the customs of the Hunters, of their rites for their dead. The young woman will get much more self-conscious at the end of the rites, when the garb is left with either the body, or something close to the dead.

Such as the remains of the headdress.

The Mother lays her head back down. She gives the Hunter-cub a look. His eyes are mostly free of pain, for the first time since the wizards had been slaughtered several seasons ago. Somehow, she can tell that he has found himself; that he will be a much stronger Hunter, even though his wizarding powers have mostly deserted him, except those that help to conceal him. He feels the bond between these handful, especially the young Huntress and the Hunter-cub.

The Huntress’s heart moves towards the Mother, her hand reaching out. The Mother can feel the love flowing from the young woman as she places the remnants of the headdress near the Mother’s heart.

The Mother knows at that moment that her spirit-sister is finally at rest. She moves her head against the hands of the five as they touch her. She feels the youngest’s slight bit of fear, a fear that vanishes as she runs her hand through the Mother’s fur.

Her own mind begins to calm, as she sees the light begin to expand behind the three. As she feels herself move to the light, she knows that her Huntress—the one known among her kind as Shaak Ti— is still present. Still present in the hearts of the three loved ones left behind.

As her vision fades, her eyes lock on her cub’s—her pride and her joy, just as the Hunter-cub was her spirit-sister’s.

The three and their other loves turn, after leaving the headdress, along with a small amount of their blood and their garb.

The Way of the Hunt.

* * *

Bryne watches as the four young women move through the dying light of the day. He grins at Meglann’s self-consciousness. As customary, the officiants had abandoned the mourning clothing, made to wear only for this one event. Meglann’s face had been filled with uncertainty; uncertainty that had abated somewhat when Dani had walked up to her and whispered in her ear.

Nola had said nothing, but had taken Meglann and Dani’s hand and started off. Ahsoka had decreed that Dani, Nola, and Meglann could retain the light sandals if they liked for the walk back to the small huntfast. Her people usually eschewed shoes in the wild, in a belief that they needed to remain connected to the world.

None of the women had worn the sandals, honoring Ti’s life. He feels his chest prickle with pride at them. Meglann had never met Ti, Nola only briefly. He thinks of what had finally defeated the Asundrance. The raw, pure love from Dani. The love from Meglann and Nola and the others as they had come to Felucia merely on his belief that Shaak Ti, or at least some aspect of her, had needed him. He looks at Ahsoka, walking next to him.

“You okay, Runt?” he asks, once again. She gives her brilliant smile in reply.

“Yep,” is all that she says. She moves closer and kisses him. She looks away.

“You know that he’ll always be with you in some way, right?” he asks.

After a moment, she nods, continuing to walk. She remains silent. He stops, eying the uncertainty on her face. The other three stop as well, pull closer. He lifts his hand and touches her face, then moves his hand down to her chest. He places his palm on her skin, feeling the rapid heartbeat. The others place their hands there as well, as well as over his heart. After a moment, Ahsoka moves her cool hand to his.

“He’s always there. More than anyone else, he shaped you.” She starts to speak, but he shakes his head. “You’ll focus on those times, the things that he taught you, the laughter—even the times that you feel like you failed him.” He kisses her. “Even the times when he disappointed you. They’ll be with you, just like your grief will. The grief will fade. I’ll be there to mourn with you and ease your pain, as best as I can.”

She smiles again. “You’re pretty good at that, Bait,” she says. “Among other things.”

“Do you think you could save all demonstration of those other things until we get back to the ship?” Meglann asks acerbically. “Some of us are not exactly enthused about standing in the middle of the boonies stark naked with blood dripping down from our arms for any predator that might get an idea that they’re hungry.”

All five laugh, then pull her closer. “We’ll protect you, Hammer,” Ahsoka says, using a version of her code name—a legacy from her mother. “Something tells me we might be good with the _akul_ for a bit.”

Their hands move down to each other’s as they start to walk again.

As they do, Bryne looks down at the small disk that he holds in one hand. A perfectly round bit of polished stone and metal that he had been holding the entire time. A light colored top, with bits of black stone. A stone last seen in a much larger version, that of the altar in the Gray Temple. His thumb touches the _akul_ tooth embedded in it. He cautiously reaches out with the Force, just as he had every other time he had looked at it. He pushes past Ahsoka’s familiar avatar in his mind to scan the disk.

He feels nothing. He sees Ahsoka looking at him. “I don’t feel anything from it, Jame,” she says, using his birthname. “No darkness, at least. Nothing like I felt when I got to Felucia the second time.” She closes her hand over the stone, holding it between them as they walk to the ship.

Warmth flows through his heart. The stone itself is slightly warmer than her hand, but still closer to her temperature than his. He feels a tickle in his mind.

He breathes out as he hears a warm, lightly accented voice in his head. The voice triggers memories of the training bond with Shaak Ti.

_You won’t get away from me, that easily, my young Padawan. Like you told Ahsoka. I’ll be there with you always. I just might get to at least talk to you, unlike Skywalker. To remind you that I can still kick your ass when I think you need it._

He shakes his head, wondering if he actually is crazy. As always, he can’t tell if the voice is his own conscience, or if Ti, and occasionally Ahsoka, speak to him.

He decides not to worry about it, falling back on words he had heard in those voices in his head.

_Sometimes the Force isn’t meant to be understood._

* * *

Galen Marek watches the primary of an unfamiliar world sink below the horizon. He takes a deep breath, then turns back into the beat up freighter. The freighter had come a day or two after the escape from Felucia. The Inquisitor’s TIE was no longer needed, as that part of his life was now dead. He moves into the main cabin.

Kento Mallie lies on the couch, his eyes closed. His father is now resting quietly, after fitful sleep for the last two weeks. The effects of the Asundrance, plus the trauma of realizing that Lorhena Marek was no longer actually physically present on this plane of existence, had taken their toll on the non-Force user. Galen pulls the blanket up around Kento’s shoulders. Galen doesn’t know if he will wake up. He has no way to get him to a med droid.

He sighs and moves his way over to the work table. He knows that Vader will come for him eventually. The Dark Lord had invested too much time and energy to just let him go. For the first time in several years, Galen doesn’t feel anger or fear. He is calm.

He picks up the remnants of his lightsaber. He had repaired and adapted the saber, removing the last vestiges of the spinning and dual mechanisms, filing down the sharp edges into a smooth hilt. He lifts the hilt, then releases it. It dips only slightly as the Force strengthens in his mind. He concentrates on allowing the vision of the mechanism to exit the casing. Ever since the surge in his power; the surge that had brought down the Imperial ship, he had refrained from touching the Force, fearing the backlash.

Galen concentrates on the center of the weapon, the one that shapes and focuses the blade. He sheds his thoughts of fear for his father and grief for his mother. He concentrates on one scene in his mind. He feels the water splashing over his child-self, only a light mist, but enough to warm him. He feels warm skin against his. He moves his cheek to the woman’s—his mother’s breast.

He feels the incredible warmth—the love sweep over him. He opens his eyes, then allows the blade to reconstruct. He takes the blade, then turns the emitter up. He touches the activator switch.

A brilliant blue blade unsheathes, rather than the crimson of his past. He moves the blade through the air, hearing the hum of the air displacing. Galen closes his eyes, focusing on the warm scene again. His mind’s eye tracks up to the woman’s face. He starts, the blade clattering to the deck as he feels his heart twist. The woman’s face is not Lorhena Marek’s, but a young woman with bronze curls and sparkling brown eyes.

He looks over to the small mirror on the wall of the shower. He stares at his reflection, realizing that his child-face doesn’t stare back at him. A tiny copy of the woman, with even brighter brown eyes laughs back at him.

The vision morphs into another—one that he can tell is more recent. His mind stands at a slightly taller height than the previous memory. The vision looks up into an ornate mirror in a palatial hall. He sees a tall young woman with sharp features staring back at him. She is dressed in a scarlet robe, her hair no longer covered by the hood. She moves her eyes downward, staring at the corpses of similarly dressed women, their hands bound.

Their heads are separate from their bodies, with slight burns around their necks. Her vision and his memory morphs into a slightly younger woman’s corpse, in a more ornate gown and headdress. Her body is pierced by blaster bolts. He closes his eyes as these two memories join others that had been plaguing him since Felucia. A jumble of memories from the three that he had faced.

Galen sits down, wondering where these memories come from. He gets a brief glimpse of a young woman with those same features as the child in the shower, a bit older, fighting off Imperial troopers with a large blaster. As he does, a warning bursts into his Force sense. A warning of darker forces coming. Darker forces like those who had taken the tall young woman’s sisters and Queen from her.

Galen Marek, known as Starkiller to his mother, immediately turns to the cockpit.

The lightsaber flies through the air to his hand, almost absently.

His father sleeps behind him. Only one emotion moves through his heart and mind. Images and aspects of the emotion from the two young women, images that had shown both joy and grief, but overlaid with this emotion. Aspects given to him by the last vestiges of the Asundrance, before it had left him.

Aspects borrowed, not taken. An emotion that had just allowed him to reclaim the crystal of his saber.

 _Love_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_To A Childless Woman_**
> 
> You think I cannot understand. Ah, but I do...  
> I have been wrung with anger and compassion for you.  
> I wonder if you’d loathe my pity, if you knew. 
> 
> But you shall know. I’ve carried in my heart too long  
> This secret burden. Has not silence wrought your wrong—  
> Brought you to dumb and wintry middle-age, with grey  
> Unfruitful withering?—Ah, the pitiless things I say... 
> 
> What do you ask your God for, at the end of day,  
> Kneeling beside your bed with bowed and hopeless head?  
> What mercy can He give you?—Dreams of the unborn  
> Children that haunt your soul like loving words unsaid—  
> Dreams, as a song half-heard through sleep in early morn? 
> 
> I see you in the chapel, where you bend before  
> The enhaloed calm of everlasting Motherhood  
> That wounds your life; I see you humbled to adore  
> The painted miracle you’ve never understood. 
> 
> Tender, and bitter-sweet, and shy, I’ve watched you holding  
> Another’s child. O childless woman, was it then  
> That, with an instant’s cry, your heart, made young again,  
> Was crucified for ever—those poor arms enfolding  
> The life, the consummation that had been denied you?  
> I too have longed for children. Ah, but you must not weep.  
> Something I have to whisper as I kneel beside you...  
> And you must pray for me before you fall asleep. 
> 
> Siegfried Sassoon


End file.
